itiiiUW  ^^unij 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

University  of  California. 


Class 


X  c  ( 


h* 


V 


ESSAYS  AND  SKETCHES  BY 
DOUGLAS  JERROLD 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 


OF 


All  rights  reserved 


*    The  (bsseys  of  ^ 
DOUGLAS  JERROLD 


"»««« fm 


CONTENTS 


Shakespeare  at  Charlecote  Park 

Shakespeare  at  "Bank-side" 

The  Epitaph  of  Sir  Hugh  Evans 

Bully  Bottom's  Babes 

Shakespeare  in  China 

Solomon's  Ape 

The  Castle  Builders  of  Padua 

The  Tapestry  Weaver  of  Beauvais 

The  Wine  Cellar:    A  "Morality1 

Recollections  of  Guy  Fawkes 

Elizabeth  and  Victoria 

The  Little  Great  and  the  Great  Little 

The  Manager's  Pig 

Some  Account  of  a  Stage  Devil 

Fireside  Saints 

Cat-and-Fiddle  Moralities:    The  Tale  of  a  Tiger 

A  Gossip  at  Reculvers 

The  Two  Windows 


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214473 


VI 


CONTENTS 


The  Order  or  Poverty 
The  Old  Man  at  the  Gate 
The  Folly  of  the  Sword  . 
The  Greenwich  Pensioner 
The  Drill  Sergeant 
The  Handbook  of  Swindling 


PAGE 
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LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  two  flasks  were  in  brief  time  emptied"  (The  Wine 

Cellar)    .  .  .  Photogravure  Frontispiece 


Headpiece  to  Contents 

Tailpiece  to  Contents 

Headpiece  to  List  of  Illustrations 

Headpiece  to  Shakespeare  at  Charlecote  Park 

Tailpiece  to  Shakespeare  at  Charlecote  Park 

Headpiece  to  Shakespeare  at  "  Bank-Side"     . 

Tailpiece  to  Shakespeare  at  "  Bank-Side  " 

Headpiece  to  The  Epitaph  of  Sir  Hugh  Evans 

"  One  who  would  have  added  weight  and  dignity  to  the 

ceremony  " 
Headpiece  to  Bully  Bottom's  Babes     . 
Tailpiece  to  Bully  Bottom's  Babes 
Headpiece  to  Shakespeare  in  China     . 


VI 

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LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  Became  wise  by  poring  on  his  book  " 

Tailpiece  to  Shakespeare  in  China 

Headpiece  to  Solomon's  Ape    .... 

"  Cast  him  down  a  ripe  pomegranate" 

Tailpiece  to  Solomon's  Ape    .  .  ... 

Headpiece  to  The  Castle  Builders  of  Padua     . 

Headpiece  to  The  Tapestry  Weaver  of  Beauvais 

Tailpiece  to  The  Tapestry  Weaver  of  Beauvais 

Headpiece  to  The  Wine  Cellar  :  A  "  Morality  " 

Tailpiece  to  The  Wine  Cellar:   A   "  Morality  " 

Headpiece  to  Recollections  of  Guy  Fawkes     . 

"Rejoicing  in   the  captivity  of  a   suit  of  clothes   stuffed 

with  hay  "  . 

Tailpiece  to  Recollections  of  Guy  Fawkes 
Headpiece  to  Elizabeth  and  Victoria  . 

"  Rank  .  .  .  preached  its  high  prerogative  from  externals 
"  Hangman's  surgery  "         .... 
Headpiece  to  The  Little  Great  and  the  Great  Little  . 
Tailpiece  to  The  Little  Great  and  the  Great  Little    . 
Headpiece  to  The  Manager's  Pig 
Tailpiece  to  The  Manager's  Pig 
Headpiece  to  Some  Account  of  a  Stage  Devil 
"Would  solace  the  child  by  playing  upon  a  diabolic  fiddle 
Tailpiece  to  Some  Account  of  a  Stage  Devil    . 
Headpiece  to  Fireside  Saints  .... 
Tailpiece  to  Fireside  Saints     .... 
Headpiece  to  Cat-and-Fiddle  Moralities:  The  Tale  of  a  Tiger 
*<  Almost  for  two  whole  days  did  the  tiger  sleep  " 


LIST    OF     ILLUSTRATIONS      ix 


Tailpiece  to  Cat-and-Fiddle  Moralities:   The  Tale  of  a  Tiger 

Headpiece  to  A  Gossip  at  Reculvers   . 

44  Sugar  from  even  the  sweeter  lips  of  lady  mistress  " 

Tailpiece  to  A  Gossip  at  Reculvers     . 

Headpiece  to  The  Two  Windows 

Headpiece  to  The  Order  of  Poverty    . 

14  He  has  dreamed  away  his  life  upon  a  hillside  "     . 

Tailpiece  to  The  Order  of  Poverty 

Headpiece  to  The  Old  Man  at  the  Gate 

Headpiece  to  The  Folly  of  the  Sword 

"Hodge,  poor  fellow,  enlists" 

Tailpiece  to  The  Folly  of  the  Sword  . 

Headpiece  to  The  Greenwich  Pensioner 

Tailpiece  to  The  Greenwich  Pensioner 

Headpiece  to  The  Drill  Sergeant 

"  He  is,  indeed,  unbent  "     .... 

Headpiece  to  The  Handbook  of  Swindling     . 

"  Politely  receives  his  destroyer  "    . 

"Any  one  of  these  names  may  be  .  .    .  confidently  given 

in  to  the  night  constable" 
"  Other  worthies  laboured  on  horseback  "  . 


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INTRODUCTION 

Much  of  Douglas  Jerrold's  writing  took  essay  form  al- 
though he  only  applied  the  title  to  five  short  pieces  which 
were  added  as  Essays  to  The  Chronicles  of  Clovernook  in 
1846.  Those  five  pieces  are  included  in  this  volume  along 
with  others  from  his  collected  works,  and  from  among  those 
scattered  contributions  to  periodicals  which  have  been 
brought  together  at  various  times  since  his  death. 

Born  in  London  on  January  3rd,  1803,  Douglas  William 
Jerrold  was  the  youngest  son  of  a  theatrical  manager  then 
of  the  Kent  circuit.  His  baby  years  were  passed  at 
Cranbrook,  his  childhood  at  Sheerness,  and  then,  not 
having  quite  attained  the  mature  age  of  eleven,  he  was 
entered  as  a  first-class  volunteer  on  board  the  Namur,  guard- 
ship  at  the  Nore,  on  December  22,  1813.  Here  in  the  ship's 
school  his  education  was  continued,  and  here  the  midship- 
man was  allowed  privileges  dear  to  the  boyish  heart ;  he 
was  permitted  to  keep  pigeons,  and  not  the  least  of  his 
privileges  was  the  being  permitted  the  use  of  the  captain's 
collection  of  books — that  captain,  it  is  pleasant  to  recall, 
being  a  brother  of  Jane  Austen.  About  fifteen  months 
after  joining  the  Namur  he  was  transferred  to  the  brig 
Ernest,  engaged  in  convoying  transports  and  in  bringing 
home  wounded  soldiers  from  the  Continent.  Then  came 
Waterloo  and  Peace.  In  October  181 5  the  Ernest  was 
paid  off  and  the  boy-officer  returned  to  civil  life.  At  the 
end  of  the  year  the  Jerrold  family  left  Sheerness  for 
London,  and  Douglas  made  a  new  start  as  printer's 
apprentice,  and  perseveringly  pursued  a  rigorous  plan  of 
self-education.     Then  he  began  writing  verses  and  plays, 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

and  when  he  was  eighteen  his  first  piece  was  represented  on 
the  stage.  Play-writing  and  slight  journalism  were  com- 
bined with  the  compositor's  work  for  a  few  years  before, 
throwing  aside  the  composing  stick,  he  relied  entirely  on 
the  pen.  Numerous  plays — of  many  of  which  nothing 
beyond  the  names  is  now  recoverable — were  written  before 
Douglas  Jerrold  made  his  "hit"  with  Black-eyed  Susan  in 
1829.  Thenceforward  he  was  a  busy  playwright  and  a  con- 
stant contributor  to  the  magazines,  annuals  and  newspapers. 
In  1 84 1  the  advent  of  Punch  introduced  him  to  a  medium 
peculiarly  suited  to  his  genius,  and  to  that  periodical  he 
contributed  his  most  popular  work,  Mrs  Caudle's  Curtain 
Lectures,  and  one  of  his  best  novels,  The  Story  of  a  Feather. 
To  the  Illuminated  Magazine  (1843-4)  and  Douglas 
Jerrold' s  Shilling  Magazine  (1845-8),  both  of  which  he 
edited,  he  contributed  many  characteristic  essays  and  stories, 
but  later  he  devoted  himself  more  particularly  to  political 
writing  as  editor  of  Douglas  Jerrold' ' s  Weekly  Newspaper 
(1846-8),  and  of  Lloyd's  Weekly  Newspaper  (1852-7). 
He  died  on  June  8th,  1857. 

We  have  heard  much  within  recent  years  for  and  against 
fiction  "with  a  purpose,"  as  though  this  was  some  new 
literary  manifestation.  Among  the  best  remembered  writers 
of  the  early  Victorian  era  are  just  those  who  had  a 
purpose  other  than  that  of  merely  amusing  their  readers — 
Thackeray  and  Dickens  are  of  course  the  two  most  striking 
examples.  The  author's  purpose  is  often  the  salt  not  only 
flavouring  his  work  for  immediate  contemporaries,  but 
also  preserving  it  for  future  readers.  That  with  Douglas 
Jerrold  this  purpose  counted  for  much  we  have  his  own 
words  to  show.  Prefacing  one  of  his  serial  ventures  he  said  : 
"  It  will  be  our  chief  object  to  make  every  essay — however 
brief,  and  however  light  and  familiar  in  its  treatment — 
breathe  'with  a  purpose.  Experience  assures  us  that, 
especially  at  the  present  day,  it  is  by  a  defined  purpose  alone, 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

whether  significant  in  twenty  pages  or  in  twenty  lines, 
that  the  sympathies  of  the  world  are  to  be  engaged,  and  its 
support  insured. "  That  this  conviction  was  at  the  back  of 
the  greater  part  of  Douglas  Jerrold's  writings  no  student  of 
his  work  can  fail  to  recognise.  The  fact  is  perhaps  answer- 
able for  much  of  his  work  having  enjoyed  but  a  temporary 
popularity,  for  there  are  two  ways  of  writing  "with  a 
purpose  " — the  first  the  topical  or  journalistic  way,  and  the 
second  the  general  or  more  philosophical.  Yet  if  Douglas 
Jerrold  expended  himself  to  a  considerable  extent  over  the 
particular,  he  by  no  means  neglected  the  general,  of  which 
there  is  abundant  testimony  in  this  volume,  as  well  as  in 
St  Giles  and  St  James,  The  Story  of  a  Feather,  Punch's 
Letters,  and  that  little  book  of  golden  philosophy,  The 
Chronicles  of  Clov.ernook. 

The  essays  collected  into  this  volume  are,  as  has  been 
hinted,  from  various  sources  ;  the  earliest  dates  from  the 
late  'twenties,  the  latest  from  the  last  year  of  the  author's 
life.  No  attempt  has  been  made  to  place  them  chrono- 
logically. It  has  seemed  well  to  keep  the  five  Shakespearean 
essays  together,  representing  as  they  do  a  life-long  interest 
of  their  author's.  In  the  early  'thirties  Douglas  Jerrold  and 
a  number  of  other  young  Shakespeare  enthusiasts — William 
Godwin  the  Younger,  Laman  Blanchard,  Kenny  Meadows, 
etc.  —  formed  the  Mulberry  Club,  at  the  gatherings  of 
which  essays  and  verses  were  read  by  the  members  ;  some 
certainly  of  the  following  papers  formed  part  of  the  club's 
"  Mulberry  Leaves,"  as  also  did  the  same  writer's  song  on 
Shakespeare' s  Crab  Tree,  a  song  which  may  be  quoted 
here,  as  it  is  not  widely  known,  to  complete  Jerrold's 
"  leaves." 

To  Shakespeare's  mighty  line 
Let's  drink  with  heart  and  soul; 

'Twill  give  a  zest  divine, 

Though  humble  be  the  bowl. 


INTRODUCTION 

Then  drink  while  1  essay, 
In  slipshod,  careless  rhyme, 

A  legendary  lay 

Of  Willy's  golden  time. 

One  balmy  summer's  night, 

As  Stratford  yeomen  tell, 
One  Will,  the  royst'ring  wight, 

Beneath  a  crab  tree  fell ; 
And,  sunk  in  deep  repose, 

The  tipsy  time  beguiled, 
Till  Dan  Apollo  rose 

Upon  his  greatest  child. 

Since  then  all  people  vowed 

The  tree  had  wondrous  power  : 
With  sense,  with  speech  endowed. 

' Twould  prattle  by  the  hour ; 
Though  scattered  far  about, 

Its  remnants  still  would  blab  : 
Mind,  ere  this  fact  you  doubt, — 

It  was  a  female  crab. 


"  I  felt,"  thus  spoke  the  tree, 

11  As  down  the  poet  lay, 
A  touch,  a  thrill,  a  glee, 

Ne'er  felt  before  that  day. 
Along  my  verdant  blood 

A  quick'ning  sense  did  shoot, 
Expanding  every  bud, 

And  rip'ning  all  my  fruit. 

'What  sounds  did  move  the  air, 

Around  me  and  above  I 
The  yell  of  mad  despair, 

The  burning  sigh  of  love  ! 
Ambition,  guilt-possessed, 

Suspicion  on  the  rack, 
The  ringing  laugh  and  jest, 

Begot  by  sherris-sack  ! 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

"  Since  then,  my  branches  full 

Of  Shakespeare's  vital  heat, 
My  fruit,  once  crude  and  dull 

Became  as  honey  sweet ; 
And  when,  o'er  plain  and  hill, 

Each  tree  was  leafless  seen, 
My  boughs  did  flourish  still 

In  everlasting  green." 

And  thus  our  moral  food 

Doth  Shakespeare  leaven  still, 
Enriching  all  the  good 

And  less'ning  all  the  ill ; — 
Thus,  by  his  bounty  shed 

Like  balm  from  angel's  wing, 
Though  winter  scathe  our  head, 

Our  spirits  dance  with  spring. 

With  reference  to  the  first  of  the  following  essays  there 
recently  came  into  my  hands  an  interesting  letter  from  the 
author,  which  may  well  be  quoted  here.  Walter  Savage 
Landor's  Citation  and  Examination  of  William  Shakespeare 
had  been  published  in  1834,  and  apparently  Jerrold's 
correspondent  had  pointed  out  the  similarity  of  theme  : — 

"11  Thistle  Grove,  Little  Chelsea, 
"August  6th  (1835). 

"My  dear  Sir, — The  Trial  of  Shakespeare  was,  I  think, 
published  by  Bentley.  I  have  only  read  extracts  from  it  in 
reviews  ;  and  though  therein  I  recognised  nothing  similar  to  my 
little  sketch,  nevertheless  the  publication  of  the  book  does,  on 
consideration,  seem  to  preoccupy  the  subject.  I  concluded 
that  you  had  seen  something  of  the  volume,  or  should 
before  have  pointed  it  out  to  you.  If  you  please — for  I 
confess  myself  somewhat  thin-skinned  under  any  charge 
of  plagiary,  the  more  especially  when  unmerited — you  may 
omit  the  first  legend. 

"  For  the  second,  it  has  never  yet  seen  the  light ;  nor  am 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

I  aware  of  the  existence  of  any  essay  to  which  even  the 
uncharitableness  of  criticism  might  imagine  a  resemblance. 

"  It  struck  me,  on  reading  it,  that  were  it  broken  up 
more  into  paragraphs — as  new  objects  are  introduced — 
it  would  be  more  effective.  As  it  is  the  images  crowding 
so  closely  upon  each  other — (whilst  the  spirit  of  the  essay 
depends  upon  the  distinctness  with  which  they  represent 
the  several  plays) — may  confuse,  and  thus  fail  to  satisfy 
the  reader.  If  you  think  with  me,  and  will  again  favour 
me  with  the  proof,  I  will  make  the  alterations  with  as 
little  trouble  as  possible  to  the  printer.  There  being  now 
only  one  legend,  I  should  call  the  paper  Shakespeare  at 
Bankside. — I  am,  my  dear  Sir,  yours  truly, 

"  Douglas  Jerrold." 
"  W.  H.  Harrison,  Esq." 

Beyond  the  fact  that  they  both  deal  with  the  tradition  of 
Shakespeare's  deer-stealing  escapade  and  departure  from 
Stratford-on-Avon,  there  is  but  little  similarity  between 
Douglas  Jerrold's  brief  essay  and  Landor's  much  longer 
work.  With  reference  to  Shakespeare  in  China  it  may  be 
of  interest  to  point  out — the  author  in  satirising  his  fellow 
countryman  later  used  the  fiction  of  describing  English 
characters  from  the  Chinese  point  of  view  in  Punch  of  May 
25th,  1844. 

If  the  first  few  essays  testify  to  the  author's  loving 
homage  to  Shakespeare,  others  in  no  uncertain  voice  pro- 
claim his  political  radicalism,  his  detestation  of  war,  and  his 
sense  of  the  truth  that  man's  inhumanity  to  man  makes 
countless  thousands  mourn.  In  Recollections  of  Guy  Faivkes 
the  references  to  the  Isle  of  Sheppy  ll  some  five  and  twenty 
years  ago "  are  reminiscences  of  Jerrold's  boyhood  at 
Sheerness.  The  pleasant  little  homily  on  human  con- 
sistency, The  Manager's  Pig,  is  said  to  have  been  founded 
in   fact ;   the   manager   in    question  being  Davidge   of   the 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

Coburg  Theatre,  to  whom  Jerrold  was  for  a  time  "  house- 
hold author  "  at  a  weekly  salary.  The  series  of  Cat-and- 
Fiddle  Moralities  so  auspiciously  begun  with  The  Tale  of  a 
Tiger  was  not  pursued  any  further.  The  Drill  Sergeant  and  The 
Greenwich  Pensioner  formed  part  of  a  series  of  Full  Lengths, 
contributed  to  the  Monthly  Magazine  in  1826-7;  there 
were  at  least  six  of  them,  but  as  I  have  not  been  able  to  con- 
sult a  complete  set  of  the  magazine,  I  have  only  been  able  to 
trace  three — the  two  given  and  one  on  The  Ship  Clergyman. 
In  the  closing  item  of  this  collection  we  have  a  satiric 
essay  of  a  sort,  which  seems  to  have  been  in  the  air  at  the 
time;  it  was  published  originally  in  1839  w^tn  illustrations 
by  Phiz,  at  the  same  time  that  Thackeray  by  contributing 
his  Catherine  to  Fraser' 's  was  also  seeking  to  discredit  "  the 
Newgate  school "  of  fiction.  Later,  in  Punch,  Douglas 
Jerrold  reverted  to  the  "  Newgate  novel-mongers,"  mention- 
ing them  as  still  a  power,  and  showing  that  satire  had  not 
stopped  the  demand  for  their  productions ;  and  in  one  of 
the  most  popular  of  his  comedies  a  character  is  made  to  say, 
"  When  I  was  young,  girls  used  to  read  Pilgrim  s  Progress, 
Jeremy  Taylor,  and  such  books  of  innocence  ;  now,  young 
ladies  know  the  ways  of  Newgate  as  well  as  the  turnkeys. 
Then,  books  gave  girls  hearty,  healthy  food ;  now,  silly 
things,  like  larks  in  cages,  they  live  upon  hemp-seed.', 

W.  J. 


SHAKESPEARE  AT  CHARLECOTE  PARK 


It  was  a  fine  May  morning  when  the  bailiff  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy,  of  Charlecote,  attended  by  some  half-dozen  serving 
men,  rode  quickly  through  the  streets  of  Stratford,  and 
halted  at  the  abode  of  his  worship  the  Mayor.  The 
children  in  the  street  stood  mute,  and  stared ;  gossips 
ran  to  door  and  casement ;  Thrums,  the  tailor,  mechanic- 
ally twitched  off  his  cap,  and  for  a  moment  forgot  the  new 
bridal  jerkin  of  Martin  Lapworth,  the  turner,  of  Henley 
Street ;  John-a-Combe,  the  thrifty  money-scrivener,  startled 
from  a  sum  of  arithmetic,  watched  the  horsemen  with 
peering  eyes  and  open  mouth  ;  and  every  face  expressed 
astonishment  and  surmise  as  the  horses'  hoofs  tore  up  the 
road,  and  the  arms  of  the  riders  rang  and  clattered  ;  and 
their  visages,  burly  and  glowing,  showed  as  of  men  bearing 
mighty  tidings.  Had  a  thunderbolt  fallen  in  the  market- 
place, it  could  not  more  suddenly  have  broken  the  tran- 
quillity of  Stratford  than  had  the  sudden  visit  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy's  retainers.      Every  one  pressed  to  the  Mayor's  house 

A  « 


2  SHAKESPEARE    AT 

to  learn  the  tidings,  and  in  a  brief  time  one,  taking  up  the 
fears  of  his  neighbour  for  the  truth,  told  an  inquiring  third 
that  the  swarthy  Spaniard,  with  a  thousand  ships,  had 
entered  the  Thames  ;  that  her  gracious  highness  the  Queen 
was  a  close  prisoner  in  the  Tower,  and  that  the  damnable 
papists  had  carried  the  host  through  the  city,  and  had 
performed  High  Mass  in  the  Abbey  of  Westminster.  This 
rumour  was  opposed  by  another,  averring  that  the  Queen 
had  drunk  poison  in  a  quart  of  sherris  (a  beverage  much 
loved  by  her  highness) — whilst  a  fourth  story  told  of  her 
private  marriage  with  the  Master  of  the  Horse.  Great 
wonderment  followed  on  each  tale.  Some  vowed  they 
would  never  be  brought  to  speak  Spanish,  others  religiously 
called  for  fire  upon  all  Catholics — whilst  more  than  one 
good  housewife  hoped  that  in  all  reasonable  time  her 
Majesty  would  bring  forth  a  prince.  Stratford  was  the 
very  court-place  for  rumour  ;  old,  yellow  Avon  paused  in 
his  course,  astonished  at  the  hum  and  buzz  that  came  with 
every  wind. 

At  length  the  truth  became  manifest.  No  Spanish 
bottom  poisoned  the  Thames ;  no  Spanish  flag  blasted 
the  air  of  England.  Elizabeth  yet  gripped  her  sceptre — 
yet  indulged  in  undrugged  sack  and  cold  virginity.  Still 
it  was  no  mean  event  that  could  thrust  seven  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy's  men  into  their  saddles,  and  send  them  galloping, 
like  so  many  St  Georges,  to  the  Mayor  of  Stratford.  Thus 
it  was  then  ;  the  park  of  Sir  Thomas  had  been  entered  on 
the  over-night,  and  one  fine  head  of  fallow  deer  stolen  from 
the  pasturage,  whilst  another  was  found  sorely  maimed, 
sobbing  out  its  life  among  the  underwood.  The  marauders 
were  known,  and  Sir  Thomas  had  sent  to  his  worship  to 
apprehend  the  evil-doers,  and  despatch  them  under  a  safe 
guard  to  the  hall  of  Charlecote.  This  simple  story  mightily 
disappointed  the  worthy  denizens  of  Stratford,  and,  for  the 
most  part,  sent  them  back  to  their  various  business.      Many, 


CHARLECOTE    PARK  3 

however,  lingered  about  his  worship's  dwelling  to  catch  a 
view  of  the  culprits — for  they  were  soon  in  custody — and 
many  a  head  was  thrust  from  the  windows  to  look  at  the 
offenders,  as,  mounted  on  horseback,  and  well  guarded  on 
all  sides  by  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  servants  and  the  constables 
of  Stratford,  they  took  their  way  through  the  town,  and, 
crossing  the  Avon,  turned  on  the  left  to  Charlecote. 

There  were  four  criminals,  and  all  in  the  first  flush  of 
manhood  ;  they  rode  as  gaily  among  their  guards  as  though 
each  carried  a  hawk  upon  his  fist  and  were  ambling  to  the 
sound  of  Milan  bells.  One  of  the  culprits  was  specially 
distinguished  from  his  companions,  more  by  the  perfect 
beauty  of  his  face  than  by  the  laughing  unconcern  that 
shone  in  it.  He  seemed  about  twenty-two  years  of  age,  of 
somewhat  more  than  ordinary  stature,  his  limbs  combining 
gracefulness  of  form  with  manly  strength.  He  sat  upon 
his  saddle  as  though  he  grew  there.  His  countenance  was 
of  extraordinary  sweetness.  He  had  an  eye,  at  once  so 
brilliant  and  so  deep,  so  various  in  its  expression,  so  keenly 
piercing,  yet  so  meltingly  soft — an  eye  so  wonderful  and 
instant  in  its  power  as  though  it  could  read  the  whole 
world  at  a  glance — such  an  eye  as  hardly  ever  shone  within 
the  face  of  man  ;  it  was  not  an  eye  of  flesh — it  was  a  living 
soul.  His  nose  and  chin  were  shaped  as  with  a  chisel 
from  the  fairest  marble  ;  his  mouth  looked  instinct  with 
thought,  yet  as  sweet  and  gentle  in  its  expression  as 
is  an  infant's  when  it  dreams  and  smiles.  And  as  he 
doffed  his  hat  to  a  fair  head  that  looked  mournfully  at 
him  from  an  upper  casement,  his  broad  forehead  bared  out 
from  his  dark  curls  in  surpassing  power  and  amplitude.  It 
seemed  a  tablet  writ  with  a  new  world. 

The  townspeople  gazed  at  the  young  man,  and  some  of 
them  said,  "  Poor  Will  Shakespeare  !  "  Others  said,  "  'Twas 
a  s»;e  thing  to  get  a  child  for  the  gallows  !  "  and  one  old 
crone  lifted  up  her  lean  hands  and  cried,  "  God  help  poor 


4  SHAKESPEARE    AT 

Anne  Hathaway,  she  had  better  married  the  tailor !  " 
Some  prophesied  a  world  of  trouble  for  the  young  man's 
parents ;  many  railed  him  as  a  scapegrace  given  to  loose 
companions,  a  mischievous  varlet,  a  midnight  roysterer ; 
but  the  greater  number  only  cried,  "Poor  Will  Shake- 
speare !  "  It  was  but  a  short  ride  to  the  hall,  yet  ere  the 
escort  had  arrived  there  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  with  some  choice 
guests  were  seated  at  dinner. 

Hereupon  the  constables  were  ordered  to  take  especial 
care  of  the  culprits,  who  were  forthwith  consigned  to  the 
darkest  and  strongest  cellar  at  Charlecote.  Here,  at  least, 
it  was  thought  that  Will  Shakespeare  would  abate  some- 
what of  his  unseemly  hardihood,  for  all  the  way  to  the 
mansion  he  had  laughed  and  jested  and  made  riddles  on 
the  constables'  beards,  and  sang  snatches  of  profane  songs, 
and  kissed  his  fingers  to  the  damsels  on  the  road,  and,  indeed, 
"  showed  himself,"  as  a  discreet,  observing  nun  declared, 
"little  better  than  a  child  of  Satan."  In  the  cellar  he  and 
his  co-mates,  it  was  thought,  would  mend  their  manners. 
"  As  they  do  not  learn  to  respect  God,  and  worship  Sir 
Thomas,  and  honour  deer's  flesh,  as  good  Christians  ought 
— and  they  learn  not  these  things  in  the  dark — 'tis  to  waste 
God's  gifts  upon  'em  to  let  'em  see  the  light  of  day."  Thus 
spoke  Ralph  Elder,  constable  of  Stratford,  to  one  of  the 
grooms  of  Charlecote.  "  I  tell  you,  John,"  continued  the 
functionary,  "  Will  Shakespeare's  horse  didn't  stumble 
for  nothing  at  the  field  of  hemp.      God  saves  poor  babes 

born  to  be  hanged,  for  'tis  no  constable's  affair Hush  ! 

mercy  on  us,  they  laugh — laugh  like  lords !  " 

To  the  shame  of  the  prisoners  be  it  spoken,  the  discourse 
of  Ralph  was  broken  by  a  loud  shout  from  the  cellar.  To 
add  to  the  abomination,  the  captives  trolled  forth  in  full 
concert  a  song — "a  scornful  thing,"  as  Ralph  afterwards 
declared  it,  "  against  the  might  and  authority  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy."   The  men,  the  maids — all  flocked  to  the  cellar  door, 


CHARLECOTE    PARK  5 

while  the  dungeon  of  the  prisoners  rang  with  their  shouting 
voices.  "  It  was  thus  they  glorified,"  as  Ralph  avowed, 
44  in  their  past  iniquities  "  : — 

"  'Twas  yester  morning,  as  I  walked  adown  by  Charlecote  Meads, 
And  counting  o'er  my  wicked  sins,  as  friars  count  their  beads  ; 

I  halted  just  beside  a  deer — a  deer  with  speaking  face, 

That  seem'd  to  say,  *  In  God's  name  come  and  take  me  from 
this  place  ! ' 

"  And  then  it  'gan  to  tell  its  tale — and  said  its  babe  forlorn 
Had  butcher'd  been  for  Lucy's  dish  soon  after  it  was  born  ; 

I I  know  'tis  right ! '  exclaimed  the  dam,  «  my  child  should  form 

a  feast, 
But  what  I  most  complain  of  is,  that  beast  should  dine  off  beast !  ' 

(i  And  still  the  creature  mourn'd  its  fate,  and  how  it  came  to  pass 
That  Lucy  here  a  scarecrow  is,  in  London  town  an  ass  1  x 
And  ended  still  its  sad  complaints  with  offers  of  its  life, 
And  twenty  hundred  times  exclaimed, '  Oh  !  haven't  you  a  knife?  ' 

"  There's  brawny  limbs  in  Stratford  town,  there's  hearts  without 
a  fear, 
There's  tender  souls  who  really  have  compassion  on  a  deer ; 
And  last  night  was  without  a  moon,  a  night  of  nights  to  give 
Fit  dying  consolation  to  a  deer  that  may  not  live. 

"  The  dappled  brute  lay  on  the  grass,  a  knife  was  in  its  side ; 
Another  from  its  yearning  throat  let  forth  its  vital  tide. 
It  said,  as  tho'  escaping  from  the  worst  that  could  befall, 
•  Now,  thank  my  stars,  I  shall  not  smoke  on  board  at  Charlecote 
Hall ! ' 

"  Oh,  happy  deer  !     Above  your  triends  exalted  high  by  fate, 
You're  not  condemned  like  all  the  herds  to  Lucy's  glutton  plate  ; 
But  every  morsel  of  your  flesh,  from  shoulder  to  the  haunch, 
Tho'  bred  and  killed  in  Charlecote  Park,  hath  lined  an  honest 
paunch." 

The  household  were  truly  scandalised  at  this   bravado. 

1  "  In  the  country  a  scarecrow,  in  London  an  ass  !  " — Shake- 
speare's Satire  on  Sir  Thomas  Lucy. 


6  CHARLECOTE    PARK 

The  night  came  on,  and  still  the  prisoners  sang  and  laughed. 
In  the  morning  Sir  Thomas  took  his  chair  of  state,  and 
ordered  the  culprits  to  his  presence.  The  servants  hurried 
to  the  cellar — but  the  birds  were  flown.  How  they  effected 
their  escape  remaineth  to  this  day  a  mystery,  though  it 
cannot  be  disguised  that  heavy  suspicion  fell  upon  four  of 
the  maids.  The  story  went  that  Shakespeare  was  a  day  or 
two  afterwards  passed  on  the  London  road. 

This  tale  was  corroborated  by  John-a-Combes.  For, 
many  years  afterwards,  a  townsman  of  Stratford,  who  had 
quitted  his  native  place  for  the  Indies  just  at  the  time  that 
Warwickshire  rang  with  the  deeds  of  the  deer-stealers, 
returned  home,  and  amongst  other  gossip  was  heard  to  ask 
the  thrifty  money-getter  what  became  of  that  rare  spark, 
Will  Shakespeare,  him  who  entered  Sir  Thomas's  park  at 
Charlecote.  "  Marry,  sir,"  replied  John  ;  "  the  worst  has 
become  of  him,  for  after  that  robbery  he  went  to  London, 
where  he  turned  stage  actor,  and  writ  plays,  King  Lear, 
Hamlet,  Macbeth,  Othello,  and  such  things." 


SHAKESPEARE  AX    DANK  SIDE 


The  bell  of  St  Mary  Overy  had  struck  three ;  the  flag  was 
just  displayed  from  the  Rose  play-house  ;  and,  rustling  in  the 
wind,  was  like,  in  the  words  of  the  pious  Philip  Stubbes, 
"  unto  a  false  harlot,  flaunting  the  unwary  onward  to 
destruction  and  to  death. "  Barges  and  boats,  filled  with 
the  flower  of  the  court-end  and  the  city,  crowded  to  the 
bridge.  Gallants,  in  the  pride  of  new  cloak  and  doublet, 
leaped  to  the  shore,  making  rich  the  strand  with  many  a 
fair  gentlewoman  lifted  all  tenderly  from  the  craft ;  horses 
pranced  along  Bank-side,  spurred  by  their  riders  to  the  door 
of  the  tiring-room  ;  nay,  there  was  no  man,  woman,  or 
child  who  did  not  seem  beckoned  by  the  Rose  flag  to  the 
play, — whose  ears  did  not  drink  in  the  music  of  the  trumpets, 
as  though  it  was  the  most  ravishing  sound  of  the  earth.  At 
length  the  trumpets  ceased,  and  the  play  began. 

1  According  to  Rowe's  story,  related  to  Pope,  Shakespeare's  first 
employment  in  London  was  to  wait  at  the  door  of  the  play-house 
and  hold  the  horses  of  those  that  had  no  servants,  that  they  might 
be  ready  after  the  performance.  "But  I  cannot,"  says  Mr 
Steevens,  "  dismiss  this  anecdote  without  observing,  that  it  seems 
to  want  every  mark  of  probability." 

7 


8  SHAKESPEARE  AT  "BANK-SIDE" 

The  Rose  was  crammed.  In  the  penny  gallery  was  many 
an  apprentice  unlawfully  dispensing  his  master's  time — it 
might  be,  his  master's  penny  too.  Many  a  husband,  slunk 
from  a  shrew's  pipe  and  hands,  was  there,  to  list  and  shake 
the  head  at  the  player's  tale  of  wedded  love.  Nor  here  and 
there  was  wanting,  peeping  from  a  nook,  with  cap  pulled 
over  the  brow,  and  ruff  huddled  about  the  neck,  the  sly, 
happy  face  of  one,  who  yesterday  gave  an  assenting  groan  to 
the  charitable  wonder  of  a  godly  neighbour — of  one  who 
marvelled  that  the  Rose  flag  should  flout  the  heavens,  yet 
call  not  down  the  penal  fire.  The  yard  was  thronged  ;  and 
on  the  stage  was  many  a  bird  of  courtly  feather,  perched  on 
his  sixpenny  stool ;  whilst  the  late  comer  lay  at  length  upon 
the  rushes,  his  thoughts  wrested  from  his  hose  and  points 
by  the  mystery  of  the  play. 

Happy,  thrice  happy  wights,  thus  fenced  and  rounded  in 
from  the  leprous,  eating  cares  of  life  !  Happy  ye,  who,  even 
with  a  penny  piece,  can  transport  yourselves  into  a  land  of 
fairy — can  lull  the  pains  of  flesh  with  the  music  of  high 
thoughts  !  The  play  goes  on,  with  all  its  influences.  Where 
is  the  courtier  ?  Ten  thousand  miles  from  the  glassy  floor  of 
a  palace,  lying  on  a  bank,  listening  to  a  reed  piping  in  Arcady. 
Where  the  man  of  thrift  ?  He  hath  shuffled  off  his  trading 
suit,  and  dreams  himself  a  shepherd  of  the  golden  time. 
Where  the  wife-ridden  husband,  doubtful  of  a  natural  right 
to  his  own  soul  ?  He  is  an  Indian  emperor,  flushed  with  the 
mastery  of  ten  thousand  slaves  !  Where  is  the  poor  appren- 
tice— he  who  hath  weals  upon  his  back  for  twopence  lost 
on  Wednesday  ?  He  is  in  El  Dorado,  strutting  upon  gold. 
Thus  works  the  play — let  it  go  on.  Our  business  calls  us 
to  the  outside. 

There  is  scarcely  a  passenger  to  be  seen  on  Bank-side. 
Three  or  four  boys  loiter  about  the  theatre,  some  trying, 
through  a  deceitful  crevice,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  play — 
some  tending  horses,  until  the  show  be  done.     Apart  from 


SHAKESPEARE  AT  "BANK-SIDE"  9 

these,  his  arms  crossed,  leaning  against  a  post,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  Rose  flag, — stands  a  youth,  whose  face,  though 
perfect  in  its  beauty,  has  yet  a  troubled  air.  As  he  stands, 
watching  the  rustling  beacon,  it  almost  seems — so  fixed  is 
his  look — as  though  he  held  some  converse  with  it ;  as 
though  the  fortunes  of  his  future  life  were  woven  in  its  web 
in  mystic  characters,  and  he,  with  his  spirit  straining  from 
his  eyes,  were  seeking  to  decipher  them.  Now — so  would 
imagination  work — there  seemed  voluble  speech  in  its  flap- 
ping folds,  and  now  a  visible  face.  The  youth  turned  from 
gazing  on  the  flag  to  the  open  river.  Some  spirit  was  upon 
him  ;  and,  through  his  eyes,  gave  to  vulgar  objects  a  new  and 
startling  form.  He  was  in  a  day-dream  of  wonder  and 
beauty  ;  and  as  it  is  told  that  those  doomed  to  the  ocean  with 
hearts  yearning  for  the  land  see  fields  and  pleasant  gardens 
in  the  heaving  wave, — so  our  hero,  tricked  by  his  errant 
fancy,  gazed  breathless  at  new  wonders  sweeping  before 
him.  A  golden  mist  shrouded  the  mansions  and  ware- 
houses on  the  strand.  Each  common  thing  of  earth  glowed 
and  dilated  under  the  creative  spirit  of  the  dreamer.  The 
Thames  seemed  fixed — whilst  a  thousand  forms  moved  along 
the  silver  pavement.  The  sky  shone  brighter — harmony 
was  in  the  air  !      The  shades  move  on. 

First  passes  one  bearing  in  his  hand  a  skull :  wisdom  is  in 
his  eyes,  music  on  his  tongue — the  soul  of  contemplation  in 
the  flesh  of  an  Apollo  :  the  greatest  wonder  and  the  deepest 
truth  —the  type  of  great  thought  and  sickly  fancies — the 
arm  of  clay,  wrestling  with  and  holding  down  the  angel. 
He  looks  at  the  skull,  as  though  death  had  written  on  it 
the  history  of  man.  In  the  distance  one  white  arm  is 
seen  above  the  tide,  clutching  at  the  branches  of  a  willow 
"  growing  askant  a  brook." 

Now  there  are  sweet,  fitful  noises  in  the  air :  a  shaggy 
monster,  his  lips  glued  to  a  bottle — his  eyes  scarlet  with 
wine — wine  throbbing  in  the  very  soles  of  his  feet — heaves 


ioSHAKESPEAREAT"  BANK-SIDE" 

and  rolls  along,  mocked  at  by  a  sparkling  creature  couched 
in  a  cowslip's  bell. 

And  now  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  an  eternity  of  love  in 
their  passionate  looks,  with  death  as  a  hooded  priest  joining 
their  hands :  a  gay  gallant  follows  them,  led  on  by  Queen 
Mab,  twisting  and  sporting  as  a  porker's  tail. 

The  horns  sound — all,  all  is  sylvan  !  Philosophy  in 
hunter's  suit,  stretched  beneath  an  oak,  moralises  on  a 
wounded  deer,  festering,  neglected,  and  alone :  and  now 
the  bells  of  folly  jingle  in  the  breeze,  and  the  suit  of  motley 
glances  among  the  greenwood. 

The  earth  is  blasted — the  air  seems  full  of  spells:  the 
shadows  of  the  Fates  darken  the  march  of  the  conqueror  : 
the  hero  is  stabbed  with  air-drawn  steel. 

The  waves  roar  like  lions  round  the  cliff:  the  winds  are 
up,  and  howling  ;  yet  there  is  a  voice,  louder  than  theirs 
— a  voice  made  high  and  piercing  by  intensest  agony  ! 
The  singer  comes,  his  white  head  "crowned  with  rank 
fumitor " — madness,  tended  by  truth,  speaking  through 
folly  ! 

The  Adriatic  basks  in  the  sun :  there  is  a  street  in 
Venice  ;  "  a  merry  bargain  "  is  struck — the  Jew  slinks  like 
a  balked  tiger  from  the  court. 

Enter  a  pair  of  legs,  marvellously  cross-gartered. 

And  hark  !  to  a  sound  of  piping,  comes  one  with  an  ass's 
head  wreathed  with  musk  roses  and  a  spirit  playing  around 
it  like  a  wildfire. 

A  handkerchief,  with  "  magic  in  the  web,"  comes  like  a 
trail  of  light,  and  disappears. 

A  leek — a  leek  of  immortal  green  shoots  up ! 

Behold !  like  to  the  San  Trinidad,  swims  in  a  buck- 
basket  labelled  "  to  Datchet  Meads." 

There  gleam  two  roses,  red  an^  white — a  Roman  cloak 
stabbed  through  and  through — a  lantern  of  the  watch  of 
Messina ! 


SHAKESPEAREAT«BANK-SIDE"ii 

A  thousand  images  of  power  and  beauty  pass  along. 

The  glorious  pageant  is  over — no !  fancy  is  yet  at 
work. — 

Yonder  ship,  laden  with  sherris,  canary,  and  spice — see 
how  her  masts  and  rigging  fall  and  melt,  like  metal  in  a 
furnace  !  Her  huge  hold,  stowed  to  the  deck  with  wine, 
swells  and  distends,  and  takes  another  form.  We  see  no 
ship,  but  a  man  mountain,  with  a  belly  that  "  would  sink  a 
navy."  One  butt  of  red  wine  is  sinking  in  the  Thames : 
no  ;  it  moves  and  shapes  itself  into  something  like  a  nose, 
which,  rising  like  a  comet,  fiery  red,  before  him  of  the 
abdomen,  seems  as  'twere  purposed  for  a  torch  to  light  him 
**  'twixt  tavern  and  tavern."     And  see 

But  the  day-dream  of  the  youth  is  broken.  A  visitor, 
mounted,  has  just  arrived,  and  would  fain  enter  the  play- 
house ;  but  there  is  none  bold  or  strong  enough  to  hold  his 
steed.  At  least  a  dozen  men — it  was  remarkable  that  each 
had  in  his  bosom  a  roll  of  paper,  it  might  be  the  draft 
of  a  play — rushing  from  the  Rose,  strove  to  hold  the  bridle  : 
but  some  the  horse  trod  down — some  he  struck  paralytic 
with  his  flashing  eye — some  ran  away,  half  distraught  at  his 
terrible  neighing.  At  length  our  dreamer  approached  the 
steed,  which,  as  it  had  been  suddenly  turned  to  stone, 
stood  still.  The  rider  dismounted  and  entered  the  play- 
house, leaving  his  horse  tended  by  our  hero.  The  animal 
ate  from  out  his  hand — answered  with  its  proud  head  the 
caresses  of  its  feeder — and,  as  it  pranced  and  curveted,  a 
sound  of  music,  as  from  the  horny  hoofs  of  dancing  satyrs, 
rose  from  the  earth.  All  stood  amazed  at  the  sudden 
taming  of  the  horse. 

The  play  ended — the  audience  issued  from  the  doors. 
The  story  had  run  from  mouth  to  mouth,  touching  the 
new-comer  and  his  horse.  All  hurried  about  the  stranger, 
to  see  him  mount.  He,  with  some  difficulty,  such  was  the 
crowd,  leaped  on  his  steed,  when,  inclining  his  face,  radiant 


i2  SHAKESPEARE  AT  "BANK-SIDE" 

with  smiles,  towards  the  youth  who  had  performed  the 
office  of  his  groom,  he  flashed  like  a  sunbeam  out  of 
sight.  All  stood  marble  with  astonishment.  At  length 
the  immortal  quality  of  the  visitor  was  made  manifest,  for, 
in  the  press  and  hurry,  a  feather  had  fallen  from  one  of  his 
wings — albeit,  concealed  and  guarded  by  a  long  cloak. 

The  youth  who  had  taken  charge  of  the  horse  seized,  as 
his  rightful  wages,  on  this  relic  of  Phoebus,  and,  taking  his 
way,  he  fashioned  it  into  a  pen,  and  with  it  from  time  to 
time  gave  to  the  "  airy  nothings "  of  his  day-dream  "a 
local  habitation  and  a  name." 

It  is  modestly  hoped  that  this  well-authenticated  story 
will  wholly  silence  the  sceptical  objections  of  Mr  Steevens. 


THE  EPITAPH  OF  SIR  HUGH  EVANS 

"  There's  pippins  and  cheese  to  come  ! 

Such  are  the  hopeful  words  of  an  old  divine— of  one  Sir 
Hugh  Evans — a  preacher  distinguished  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  reign  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  not  so  much  for  the  ascetic 
asperity  of  his  speech  and  bearing  as  for  a  certain  household 
wisdom  that  ran  like  threads  of  gold  through  his  most 
familiar  sentences,  enhanced  and  recommended  by  a  blithe 
look  and  a  chirping  voice  ;  all  of  which  excellent  gifts  made 
him  the  oracle  and  friend  of  the  yeomen  and  goodwives  of 
Windsor.     These  inestimable  qualities — to  say  nothing  of 


OFTHE 


i4  THE    EPITAPH    OF 

his  miraculous  hand  at  bowls,  and  his  marvellous  sagacity 
as  a  brewer  of  sack — had,  as  we  have  already  inferred, 
endeared  him  to  his  flock  :  and,  living,  and  preaching,  and 
gossiping  in  a  neighbourhood  of  love  and  good  fellowship, 
the  parson  grew  old,  his  cheek  mellowing  to  the  last ;  when, 

in  the  year ,  he  fell,  like  an  over-ripe  plum  from  the 

tree,  into  his  grave — all  the  singing  men  and  maids  and  little 
children  of  mournful  Windsor  following  their  teacher  to  his 
couch  of  earth,  and  chanting  around  it  the  hymn  best  loved 
by  him  when  living. 

In  sooth,  the  funeral  of  the  poor  knight  was  most  bravely 
attended.  Six  stout  morrice-men  carried  the  corpse  from 
a  cottage,  the  property  of  the  burly,  roystering  Host  of  the 
"  Garter  " — a  pretty  rustic  nook,  near  Datchet  Meads, 
whither  the  worn-out  parson  had,  for  six  months  before  his 
death,  retired  from  the  stir  and  bustle  of  Windsor — and 
where,  on  a  summer  evening,  he  might  be  seen  seated  in  the 
porch,  patiently  hearing  little  John  Fenton  lisp  his  Berkshire 
Latin, — the  said  John  being  the  youngest  grandson  of  old 
Master  Page,  and  godchild  of  the  grey-headed,  big-bellied 
landlord  of  the  "  Garter."  Poor  Sir  Hugh  had  long  been 
afflicted  with  a  vexing  asthma ;  and,  though  in  his  gayer 
times  he  would  still  brew  sack  for  younger  revellers,  telling 
them  rare  tales  of  "poor  dear  Sir  John  and  the  Prince," 
he  had,  for  seven  years  before  his  death,  eschewed  his 
former  sports,  and  was  never  known  to  hear  of  a  match 
of  bowls  that  he  did  not  shake  his  head  and  sigh, — and 
then,  like  a  stout-hearted  Christian  as  he  was,  soothe  his 
discomfited  spirit  with  the  snatch  of  an  old  song.  Doctor 
Caius  had,  on  his  death-bed,  bequeathed  to  Sir  Hugh  an 
inestimable  treasure ;  nothing  less  than  a  prescription — a 
very  charm — to  take  away  a  winter  cough :  for  three  years 
had  it  been  to  Sir  Hugh  as  the  best  gift  of  King  Oberon  ; 
but  the  fourth  winter  the  amulet  cast  its  virtue,  and  from 
year  to  year  the  parson  grew  worse  and  worse, — when,  in 


SIR    HUGH    EVANS  15 

the  sixty-eighth  year  of  his  age,  on  a  bright  May  morning,  in 
the  arms  of  his  gossip  and  friend,  staid,  sober  Master  Slender, 
with  the  Host  of  the  "  Garter  "  seated  (for  he  was  too  fat 
to  stand)  in  an  arm-chair  at  the  bedside,  and  Master  Page  and 
Master  Ford  at  the  foot,  Sir  Hugh  Evans,  knight  and  priest, 
passed  into  death,  as  into  a  sweet,  sound  sleep.  His  wits 
had  wandered  somewhat  during  the  night, — for  he  talked  of 
"  Heme  the  hunter  "  and  "  a  boy  in  white  "  ;  and  then  he 
tried  to  chirrup  a  song, — and  Masters  Page  and  Ford 
smiled  sadly  in  each  other's  face  as  the  dying  man,  chuckling 
as  he  carolled,  trolled  forth — 

"  Pinch  him,  and  burn  him,  and  turn  him  about, 
Till  candles,  and  starlight,  and  moonshine  be  out." 

As  the  day  advanced,  the  dying  man  became  more  calm  ; 
and  at  length,  conscious  of  his  state,  he  passed  away  at 
half-past  nine  in  the  morning,  with  a  look  of  serenest  happi- 
ness— and  "  God  be  with  you  !  "  were  the  last  words  that 
fluttered  from  his  lips. 

The  personal  property  of  the  dead  parson  was  shared 
among  his  friends  and  servants.  Master  Slender  inherited 
his  "  Book  of  Songs  and  Posies  "  ;  the  Host  of  the  "  Garter  " 
the  sword  with  which  Sir  Hugh  had  dared  Doctor  Caius  to 
mortal  combat ;  and  all  his  wardrobe,  consisting  of  two 
entire  suits  and  four  shirts,  somewhat  softened  the  grief  of 
Francis  Simple — son  of  Simple,  former  retainer  of  Master 
Slender,  and  for  three  years  body-servant  of  dead  Sir  Hugh. 
A  sum  of  two  shillings  and  fourpence,  discovered  among  the 
effects  of  the  deceased,  was  faithfully  distributed  to  the 
parish  poor. 

There  was  sadness  in  Windsor  streets  as  the  funeral  pro- 
cession moved  slowly  towards  the  church.  Old  men  and 
women  talked  of  the  frolics  of  Sir  Hugh  ;  and  though  they 
said  he  had  been  in  his  day  something  of  the  merriest  for  a 
parson,  yet  more  than  one  gossip  declared  it  to  be  her  belief 


16  THE    EPITAPH    OF 

that  "  worse  men  had  been  made  bishops."  A  long  train 
of  friends  and  old  acquaintance  followed  the  body.  First, 
came  worthy  Master  Slender — chief  mourner.  He  was  a 
bachelor,  a  little  past  his  prime  of  life,  with  a  sad  and  sober 
brow,  and  a  belly  inclining  to  portliness.  The  severe  censors 
of  Windsor  had  called  him  woman-hater,  for  that  in  his 
songs  and  in  his  speech  he  would  bear  too  hardly  on  the 
frailties  and  fickleness  of  the  delicate  sex  ;  for  which  unjust 
severity  older  people  might  perchance,  and  they  would,  have 
found  some  small  apology.  For,  in  truth,  Master  Slender 
was  a  man  of  softest  heart ;  and  though  he  studiously  avoided 
the  company  of  women,  he  was  the  friend  of  all  the  children 
of  Datchet  and  Windsor.  He  always  carried  apples  in  his 
pocket  for  little  John  Fenton,  youngest  child  of  Anne 
Fenton,  formerly  Anne  Page  ;  and  was  once  found  sitting 
in  Windsor  Park,  with  little  John  upon  his  knees, — Master 
Slender  crying  like  a  chidden  maid.  Of  this  enough.  Let 
it  now  suffice  to  say  that  Master  Slender — for  the  Host 
was  too  heavy  to  walk — was  chief  mourner.  Then  followed 
Ford  and  his  wife  ;  next,  Mr  Page  and  his  son  William, — 
poor  Mrs  Page  being  dead  two  years  at  Christmas,  from  a 
cold  caught  with  over  dancing,  and  then  obstinately  walking 
through  the  snow  from  her  old  gossip  Ford's.  Next  in  the 
procession  were  Master  Fenton  and  his  wife,  and  then 
followed  their  eight  children  in  couples  ;  then  Robin — now 
a  prosperous  vintner,  once  page  to  Sir  John, — with  Francis 
Simple ;  and  then  a  score  of  little  ones,  to  whom  the  poor 
dead  parson  would  give  teaching  in  reading  and  writing, — 
and,  where  he  marked  an  apter  wit  among  his  free  disciples, 
something  of  the  Latin  accidence.  These  were  all  that 
followed  Sir  Hugh  Evans  to  his  rest — for  death  had  thinned 
the  thick  file  of  his  old  acquaintance.  One  was  wanting, 
who  would  have  added  weight  and  dignity  to  the  ceremony 
— who,  had  he  not  some  few  years  before  been  called  to 
fill  the  widest  grave  that  was  ever   dug  for  flesh,  would 


SIR    HUGH    EVANS 


^ne^Kfc  s^  dignify  to  Ik*  oerccrorw  ' 


have  cast  from  his  broad  and  valiant  face  a  lustrous  sorrow 
on  the  manes  of  the  dead  churchman,— who  would  have 
wept  tears,  rich  as  wine,  upon  the  coffin  of  his  old  friend ;  for 
to  him,  in  the  convenient  greatness  of  his  heart,  all  men, 
from  the  prince  of  the  blood  to  the  nimming  knave  who 
stole  the  "  handle  of  Mrs  Bridget's  fan,"  were,  by  turns, 
friends  and  good  fellows ;  who,  at  the  supper  at  the 
"  Garter  "  (for  the  Host  gave  a  solemn  feast  in  celebration 
of  the  mournful  event),  would  have  moralised  on  death  and 
mortal  accidents,  and,  between  his  tankards,  talked  fine 
philosophy — true  divinity  ;  would  have  caroused  to  the 
memory  of  the  dead  in  the  most  religious  spirit  of  sack, 


18  THE    EPITAPH    OF 

and  have  sent  round  whole  flagons  of  surest  consolation. 
Alas  !  this  great,  this  seeming  invincible  spirit,  this  mighty 
wit,  with  jests  all  but  rich  enough  to  laugh  Death  from  his 
purpose — to  put  him  civilly  aside  with  a  quip,  bidding  him 
to  pass  on  and  strike  at  leaner  bosoms, — he  himself,  though 
with  "  three  fingers  on  the  ribs,"  had  been  hit ;  and  he,  who 
seemed  made  to  live  for  ever,  an  embodied  principle  of 
fleshly  enjoyment, — he,  the  great  Sir  John — 

"He  was  dead  and  nailed  in  his  chest." 

Others,  too,  passed  away  with  their  great  dominator,  were 
wanting  at  the  ceremonial.  Where  was  he,  with  nose 
enshrining  jests  richer  to  us  than  rubies  ?  Truly  liberal,  yet 
most  unfortunate  spirit,  hapless  Bardolph  ;  where,  when  Sir 
Hugh  was  laid  upon  the  lap  of  his  mother  earth,  oh  !  where 
wert  thou  ?  Where  was  that  glorious  feature  that,  had  the 
burying  been  at  the  dead  time  of  night,  would  have  out- 
shone the  torches  ?  Where  was  that  all-rich — all-lovely 
nose  ?  Alack  !  it  may  be  in  the  maws  of  French  falcons  ; 
its  luckless  owner  throttled  on  the  plains  of  Agincourt  for 
almost  the  smallest  theft ;  hung  up  by  fellest  order  of  the 
Fifth  Henry — of  his  old  boon  companion,  his  brother  robber 
on  the  field  of  Gadshill.  And  could  Harry  march  from  the 
plain  with  laurel  on  his  brow  and  leave  the  comrade  of  his 
youth — his  fellow-footpad — with  neck  mortally  cut  "  with 
edge  of  penny  cord  "  ?  Should  such  a  chaplet  have  been 
intertwined  with  such  hemp  ?  The  death  of  Bardolph  is  a 
blot — a  foul,  foul  blot  on  the  'scutcheon  of  Agincourt.  But 
let  us  pass  the  ingratitude  and  tyranny  of  kings,  to  dwell 
wholly  upon  the  burial  of  Sir  Hugh. 

Who  shall  say  that  all  the  spirits  with  whom  the  parson 
was  wont  to  recreate  himself, — to  counsel,  to  quarrel, — who 
shall  say  that  they  did  not  all  mingle  in  the  procession,  all 
once  again  pass  through  the  streets  of  ancient  Windsor  ? 
The  broad  shadow  of  Sir  John,  arm-in-arm  with  the  spirit 


SIR    HUGH    EVANS  19 

of  Mrs  Page, — Bardolph  and  Nym,  descended  from  their 
gibbets,  new  from  the  plains  of  France,  to  make  melancholy 
holiday  in  Berkshire, — learned  Dr  Caius,  babbling  Quickly, 
and  Pistol,  her  broken,  war-worn  husband,  kicked  down  the 
tavern  stairs,  where  in  his  old  days  he  served  as  drawer,  and 
was  killed, — and  Shallow,  immortal  Shallow,  his  lean  ghost 
fluttering  with  a  sense  of  office, — who  shall  say  that  all  these 
did  not  crowd  about  the  coffin  of  good  Sir  Hugh,  and,  as 
he  was  laid  in  the  grave,  give  him  a  smiling  welcome  to  his 
everlasting  habitation  ?  Let  us  not,  in  this  day  of  light,  be 
charged  with  superstition,  if  in  these  pages — perpetual  as 
adamant — we  register  our  belief,  a  belief  mingling  in  our  very 
blood,  that  all  these  illustrious  ghosts  followed,  and,  with  their 
dim  majesty,  ennobled  the  procession, — albeit,  to  the  eyes  of 
the  uninitiate,  none  but  the  living  did  service  to  the  dead. 

Sir  Hugh  Evans  was  laid  by  the  side  of  his  old  friend 
and  old  antagonist,  Doctor  Caius  ;  and,  for  many  years, 
there  was  a  story  among  the  good  wives  of  Windsor,  that 
the  fairies,  once  a  year,  danced  round  the  grave  of  Sir  Hugh, 
the  turf  upon  it  growing  as  bright  as  emeralds  ;  and,  in  a 
hawthorn  bush,  but  a  few  paces  from  the  spot,  "  melodious 
birds  "  did,  at  certain  seasons,  "  sing  madrigals." 

We  have  now  to  speak  of  the  epitaph  of  the  good  Sir 
Hugh.  More  than  four  hundred  years  have  passed  away 
since  the  mortal  part  of  that  most  worthy  piece  of  Welsh 
divinity  was  consigned  to  dust.  It  may  be  a  lesson  to 
ambition  to  learn  that  the  exact  spot  where  he  was  buried 
cannot,  at  the  present  time,  be  verified  :  the  ablest  anti- 
quarians are  at  odds  about  it.  Proud,  however, — and,  we 
trust,  not  unbecomingly  so, — are  we  to  be  the  means  of 
publishing  to  the  world  the  epitaph  of  Sir  Hugh,  copied 
from  his  tombstone,  in  the  possession  of  a  gentleman  in 
Berkshire,  who  has  resisted  our  most  earnest  supplications 
that  he  would  suffer  us  to  make  known  his  name.  This 
favour   he   has    resolutely  refused ;    but    has,   in   the   most 


zo  THEEPITAPHOF 

handsome  manner,  presented  us  with  the  use  of  the  tomb- 
stone, together  with  a  most  voluminous,  and  no  less  satis- 
factory, account  of  its  genuineness.  Happy  should  we 
have  been  could  we  have  found  room  for  the  history  of 
the  relic  at  full.  Leaving  it,  however,  for  the  archives  of 
the  Antiquarian  Society,  we  must  content  ourselves  with 
stating  that  the  document  fully  proves  that  the  tombstone 
was  erected  from  the  private  munificence  of  Master  Slender, 
and  that  the  pithy  and  most  touching  epitaph  inscribed 
upon  it  was  selected  by  his  happy  taste,  as  combining  all 
the  excellences  of  an  epitaph  in  the  fewest  words — these 
words  having  the  further  recommendation  of  being  uttered, 
on  a  memorable  occasion,  by  the  deceased  himself.  The 
words  were  repeated  to  Master  Slender  by  his  servant 
Simple,  despatched,  on  a  certain  day,  by  Sir  Hugh  with  a 
letter  touching  the  wooing  of  Anne  Page.  After  long 
pondering,  reviewing  every  circumstance  of  his  ancient 
friendship  with  the  dead  Sir  Hugh, — seated,  one  sunny 
afternoon,  on  the  bench  outside  the  "  Garter,"  the  words 
came  jump  again  into  the  mind  of  Slender  ;  and  quickly 
raising  and  emptying  his  tankard,  he  marched,  like  a  man 
resolved,  to  the  stone-cutter,  and — for  he  cared  not  for 
Latin — bade  the  workman  cut  on  the  stone — (the  inscrip- 
tion, considering  its  age,  is  in  a  wonderful  state  of  pre- 
servation)— the  words  that  follow  : — 

HUGH   EVANS 

Prieste 

Dgeb  atte  Datcbette 

May— anno  Domi  14 — 

Aged— 

"  There's  Pippins  and  Cheese — to  Come." 

How  simply,  yet  how  beautifully,  does  this  epitaph  shadow 
forth  the  fruitfulness  of  the  future  !  How  delicate,  and  yet 
how  sufficing,  its  note  of  promise  ! — 


SIR    HUGH    EVANS  21 

"  THERE'S  PIPPINS  AND  CHEESE TO  COME." 

Pippins  !  Does  not  the  word,  upon  a  tombstone,  conjure 
up  thoughts  of  Hesperian  gardens — of  immortal  trees,  laden 
with  golden  fruit ;  with  delicious  produce,  the  growth  of  a 
soil  where  not  one  useless  weed  takes  root,  where  no 
baneful  snake  rustles  among  the  grass,  where  no  blight 
descends,  no  canker  withers  ?  Where  we  may  pluck  from 
the  consenting  boughs,  and  eat,  and  eat — and  never,  as  in 
earthly  things,  find  a  worm  at  the  core,  a  rottenness  at  the 
heart,  where  outside  beauty  tempted  us  to  taste  ?  "  There's 
pippins  to  come  !  "  The  evil  and  misery  gathered  with  the 
apple  of  death  will  be  destroyed — forgotten — by  the 
ambrosial  fruit  to  be  plucked  for  ever  in  immortal 
orchards  !  — 

"there's  pippins  and  cheese — to  come  !  " 

What  a  picture  of  plenty  in  its  most  beneficent  aspect — 
what  a  prospect  of  pastoral  abundance  ! 

Think  of  it,  ye  oppressed  of  the  earth  !  Ye,  who  are 
bowed  and  pinched  by  want — ye,  who  are  scourged  by  the 
hands  of  persecution — ye,  crushed  with  misery — ye,  doomed 
to  the  bitterness  of  broken  faith  ;  take  this  consolation  to 
your  wearied  souls — apply  this  balsam  to  your  bruised 
hearts. — Though  all  earth  be  to  you  as  barren  as  the 
sands — 

"there's  pippins  and  cheese — to  come!  " 


BULLY    BOTTOMS    BABES 

The  immortal  weaver  of  Athens  hath  a  host  of  descendants. 
They  are  scattered  throughout  every  country  of  the  world, 
their  moral  likeness  to  their  sage  ancestor  becoming  stronger 
in  the  land  of  wealth  and  luxury.  They  are  a  race  marked 
and  distinguished  by  the  characteristics  of  their  first  parent 
— omnivorous  selfishness  and  invulnerable  self-complacency. 
They  wear  the  ass's  head,  yet  know  it  not ;  and  heedless 
of  the  devotion,  have  the  Titania  fortune  still  to  round  their 
temples  "  with  coronets  of  fresh  and  fragrant  flowers.' ' 
They  sleep  to  the  watching  of  an  enamoured  fairy,  and 
wake  only  to  new  experiences  of  her  tenderness  and  beauty. 

"  Be  kind  and  courteous  to  this  gentleman  ; 
Hop  in  his  walks,  and  gambol  in  his  eyes ; 
Feed  him  with  apricocks  and  dewberries; 
With  purple  grapes,  green  figs,  and  mulberries 
The  honey-bags  steal  from  the  humble-bees, 
And  for  night-tapers  crop  their  waxen  thighs, 
And  light  them  at  the  fiery  glow-worm's  eyes, 
To  have  my  love  to  bed  and  to  arise : 


BULLY    BOTTOM'S    BABES        23 

And  pluck  the  wings  from  painted  butterflies, 
To  fan  the  moonbeams  from  his  sleeping  eyes  : 
Nod  to  him,  elves,  and  do  him  courtesies." 

Have  we  not  here  the  adjuration  of  the  fairy  fortune  to 
all  her  ministering  delights  and  pleasures  of  the  world,  to 
render  service  and  to  do  homage  to  the  dull-brained  creature 
of  her  passion  ?  Extract  the  poetry,  the  delicious  fancy, 
from  the  injunction  of  the  Queen  of  Fairies,  and  what  is  it 
but  the  command  of  worldly  luck  to  her  many  servitors,  to 
seek  all  imaginable  delights  for  the  sordid  lump  of  earth, 
the  mere  animal  with  an  "  ass's  head "  her  diseased  and 
wayward  affections  have  made  an  idol  of?  Is  not  the 
world  thronged  with  these  Bottoms  ?  In  shape,  in 
lineament,  in  every  moral  feature,  are  they  not  the  veritable 
descendants  of  the  swaggering  homespun  Athenian  ?  They 
are  the  very  nurslings  of  fortune,  the  monstrous  and  un- 
couth objects  of  her  blind  and  fickle  passion  ;  yet  do  they 
submit  to  her  endearments  with  no  distrust,  no  passing 
suspicion  of  their  own  worthiness.  They  receive  her 
blandishments  as  nothing  more  than  a  just  and  rightful 
reward  for  excellence.  They  cannot  conceive  how  it 
could  have  been  otherwise.  Their  imagination,  vassal  to 
their  self-complacency,  will  not  allow  them  to  change 
places  for  an  instant  with  their  less  prosperous  fellow.  No ; 
Fortune  dotes  upon  them,  and  how  can  she  help  it  ?  Her  ex- 
travagant fondness  is  not  excused,  but  justified,  made  inevitable 
by  the  excelling  worthiness  of  their  parts.  Hence,  with 
what  serenity  they  issue  mandates  to  the  retainers  of  their 
fond  mistress — with  what  lordly  self-conviction  of  their 
own  merits  they  accept  their  service !  How  they  order 
Cobweb,  Peaseblossom,  and  Mustardseed  to  do  their  fantastic 
bidding,  as  though  their  bondmaster,  created  with  natural 
and  inalienable  right  to  their  feudality.  Nothing  in  the  way 
of  greatness  surprises  them — no  flattery  startles  them. 

"  Thou  art  as  wise  as  thou  art  beautiful !  "  cries  Titania 


24        BULLY    BOTTOM'S    BABES 

to  her  ass-headed  lover,  and  he  by  no  syllable  disclaims  the 
truth,  the  justice  of  the  eulogy.  He  swallows  the  praise 
as  his  natural  food,  takes  the  sweet  sound  of  his  doting 
goddess  as  rightful,  every-day  applause.  He  is  loved  by  a 
goddess,  for  the  goddess — we  have  said  it — cannot  help  it. 

The  insensibility  of  the  sons  of  Bottom  is  one  of  their 
grand,  their  unerring  characteristics.  It  is  this  profitable 
faculty  that  would  make  them  task  the  daintiest  spirits  for 
their  own  poorest,  vilest  wants,  and  dream  of  nothing 
monstrous  or  extravagant  in  such  application. 

"  I  shall  desire  you  of  more  acquaintance,  good  Master 
Cobweb :  if  I  cut  my  finger,  I  shall  make  bold  with  you." 

"  Scratch  my  head,  Peaseblossom." 

"  Mounsieur  Cobweb ;  good  mounsieur,  get  you  your 
weapons  in  your  hand,  and  kill  me  a  red-hipped  bumble-bee 
on  the  top  of  a  thistle ;  and,  good  mounsieur,  bring  me 
the  honey-bag." 

Thus  spoke  the  great  progenitor,  Bottom ;  and  of  a 
verity  his  children  are  not  more  shame-faced  task-masters. 

Next,  let  us  contrast  the  power  and  beauty  of  delights 
placed  by  Queen  Titania  at  his  will,  with  the  mean,  the 
sordid  wretchedness  of  Bottom's  appetite  and  tastes. 

"77/.   What,  wilt  thou  hear  some  music,  my  sweet  love? 

"  Bot.  I  have  a  reasonable  good  ear  in  music.  Let's 
have  the  tongs  and  bones. 

"  Tit.   Or  say,  sweet  love,  what  thou  desir'st  to  eat. 

"  Bot.  Truly  a  peck  of  provender  :  I  could  munch  your 
good  dry  oats.  Methinks  I  have  a  great  desire  to  a  bottle 
of  hay  :  good  hay,  sweet  hay,  hath  no  fellow. 

'?  Tit.   I  have  a  venturous  fairy  that  shall  seek 

The  squirrel's  hoard,  and  fetch  thee  new  nuts. 

"  Bot.  I  had  rather  have  a  handful  or  two  of  dried  peas. 
But,  I  pray  you,  let  none  of  your  people  stir  me :  I  have  an 
exposition  of  sleep  come  upon  me. 

u  Tit.   Sleep  thou,  and  I  will  wind  thee  in  my  arms. 


BULLY    BOTTOM'S    BABES        25 

Fairies,  be  gone,  and  be  always  away. 

So  doth  the  woodbine  the  sweet  honeysuckle 

Gently  entwist ;  the  female  ivy  so 

Enrings  the  barky  fingers  of  the  elm. 

Oh,  how  I  love  thee  !  how  I  dote  on  thee  I  ' ' 
Is  this  a  scene  of  mere  fairy-land  ?  No  ;  but  a  thing  of 
hard,  everyday  prosaic  life.  Have  we  not  about  us  the 
children,  the  thick-headed  descendants  of  Bottom,  with  the 
Titania  fortune  tempting  them  to  the  enjoyments  of  the 
rarest  and  sweetest  delights  ?  and  yet  the  coarse  animal 
craving  of 

M  The  shallowest  thick-skin  of  that  barren  sort," 
make  answer  to  her  dainty  invitations  with  the  poorest, 
coarsest  desires  !  A  goddess  bids  them  choose  music,  and 
they  are  for  nothing  but  "  tongs  and  bones. "  Fortune 
prays  them  to  the  banquet  on  immortal  food,  and,  with  asinine 
stubbornness,  they  bray  for  "  a  handful  or  two  of  dried 
peas."  They  are  warbled  to  by  a  goddess,  and,  unconscious 
of  the  homage,  they  make  answer  with  the  sense  of  an  ass. 
We  ask  it,  did  Bottom  die  childless  ? 

Bottom's  babes  flourish  in  twenty  paths  of  life.  We 
meet  his  children  in  the  stock-market ;  we  see  them  sleek 
and  smug  behind  the  counter ;  we  catch  their  faces  through 
carriage  windows  ;  we  hear  their  tuneful  voices  from  the 
county-bench,  the  city-court,  yea,  in  nobler  convocations 
still.  Sometimes,  too,  like  their  Athenian  father,  they  are 
"  translated."  No  matter  for  the  difference  of  calling,  the 
influence  of  education,  there  is  the  family  face — the  family 
voice  ;  the  expression  of  self-blessed  insensibility,  the  note 
of  self-complacent  gratulation.  Throughout  the  life-teem- 
ing page  of  Shakespeare  there  is  not  a  finer  poetic  rendering 
of  a  commonplace,  vulgar  class  than  Bottom. 

The  very  heart  of  their  mystery  beats  in  the  bosom  of 
the  weaver.  His  eagerness  to  be  all  things,  from  an  assured 
conviction  of  his  fitness  for  everything,  is  only  their  daily 


26        BULLY    BOTTOM'S    BABES 

conceit  dramatically  developed.  In  that  brief  scene,  what 
a  picture  have  we,  what  a  history  of  the  ten  thousand  in- 
cidents of  prose  life  !  What  an  exhibition  of  the  profound 
busy-bodies  who  clamorously  desire  to  be  Wall,  Lion, 
Moonshine,  and  Pyramus  too,  not  from  an  acquired  belief,  but 
as  it  would  seem  from  a  natural  instinct  of  their  own  fitness 
for  the  combined  charges  !  How  triumphantly  does  Bottom 
swagger  down  his  fellows  !  How  small,  mean,  degenerate 
— what  nobodies  are  they,  before  that  giant  conceit,  the 
thick-skulled  weaver  !  *  And  in  all  this  there  is  nothing 
that  is  not  the  severest  transcript  of  human  life.  We  laugh 
at  it ;  and  the  next  moment  we  are  touched  into  gravity  by 
a  reflection  of  its  serious  meaning — its  philosophic  comments 
on  the  vulgar  pretence  of  the  every-day  world. 

The  finer  part  of  the  picture,  in  which  as  we  receive  it, 
Shakespeare,  with  immortal  tints,  has  shadowed  forth  the 
souls  of  a  herd  of  men,  is  Bottom  doted  upon  by  the  Queen 
of  Fairies.  It  is  here  we  have  the  true  lineaments  of  a 
vulgar  nature  emblazoned  by  luck.  It  is  here  we  recognise 
the  self-sufficient  creature  of  wordly  success — the  ignorant 
bashaw  of  life  wearing  his  bravery  as  an  ordained  and 
necessary  part  of  himself.  He  has  the  riches,  the  sweets 
of  the  earth,  at  his  command,  and  he  pauses  not  in  passing 
wonder  at  his  prosperity.  To  him  there  is  no  such  power 
as  a  Providence.  It  is  a  part  of  the  world's  destiny  that 
he  should  be  precisely  what  he  is  ;  he  is  the  begotten  of 
fate,  and  owes  no  obligation  to  vulgar  fortune. 

Nor  are  Bottom's  Babes  less  like  their  putative  sire,  if 

1  It  is  impossible,  we  think,  for  the  reader,  if  he  witnessed  A 
Midsummer  Night's  Bream  at  Covent  Garden  last  season  (1840)  to 
banish  from  his  memory  the  Flute  of  Keeley  in  this  scene.  How 
meekly,  how  resignedly  he  gave  place  to  the  burley  consequence 
of  Bottom.  It  was  not  imbecility,  but  a  mute  absorbing  sense  of 
homage  to  the  greatness  of  the  weaver,  one  of  those  subtle  touches 
that  show  the  sympathy  of  the  actor  with  the  profoundest  mean- 
ings of  the  poet. 


BULLY    BOTTOM'S    BABES 


27 


they  have  suffered  no  transformation.  There  are  those  who 
come  into  the  world  with  the  ass's  head,  and  live  and  die 
wound  in  the  arms  of  doting  wealth.  The  hard  taskmasters 
of  life  are  often  of  these.  The  foolish,  arrogant  censors  of 
the  faults  and  backslippings  of  penury  are  to  be  found 
among  them — the  full  fleshed  moralists  who  shake  their 
shaggy  ears  at  the  small  delinquencies  of  struggling  men. 
They  eat,  drink,  sport,  and  sleep  in  fairyland  ;  their  lightest 
wish  evokes  a  minister  to  do  their  bidding  ;  and  in  their 
most  fantastic,  foolish  moods,  still  Fortune — weak,  besotted 
quean  ! — cries,  with  silverest  voice  :— 

"  Oh,  how  I  love  ye !  How  I  dote  on  ye  !  " 
Bottom  as  we  opine,  considered  in  his  truthfulness,  in  his 
reflective  powers  of  worldly  semblance,  awakens  our  pensive- 
ness,  not  our  mirth.  We  think  of  the  thousands  of  his 
children,  and  the  smile  that  would  break  at  the  mere  words 
of  the  weaver,  is  chequered  by  the  thought  of  his  prosaic 
offspring.  Yes ;  his  offspring.  It  matters  not  that  you 
point  to — in  his  carriage,  that  you  run  through  his  accredited 
genealogy,  that  you  show  his  armorial  bearings.  We  answer 
— if  he  receive  the  goods  of  fortune  as  his  right,  with  no 
thankfulness  for  the  gifts,  no  gratitude  displayed  by  constant 
sympathy  with  the  wants  and  weaknesses  of  suffering  man, 
though  you  call  him  marquis,  we  say  he  is  the  Babe  of 
Bottom ;  and  for  his  quarterings,  though  they  date  from 
the  Conquest,  the  eye  of  our  philosophy  sees  nought  on  his 
carriage  panels  but  an  ass's  head  in  a  field,  proper  ;  and  in 
the  motto  reads — "  A  bottle  of  hay  !  " 


SHAKESPEARE  IN  CHINA 


"  I  cannot  tell  that  the  wisest  Mandarin  now  living  in  China 
is  not  indebted  for  part  of  his  energy  and  sagacity  to  Shakespeare 
and  Milton,  even  though  it  should  happen  that  he  never  heard  of 
their  names." 

—  Godwin's  Essay  on  Sepulchres. 

We  do  great  injustice  to  the  College  of  Mandarins,  if  we 
think  that  body  at  the  present  time  ignorant  of  the  marvels 
of  Shakespeare.  No  :  Canton  has  produced  its  commen- 
tator, and,  by  means  of  his  explanatory  genius,  it  is  hoped 
that  in  a  few  years  the  whole  Celestial  Empire  will,  in  the 
fulness  of  its  knowledge,  bow  to  the  majesty  of  the  poet. 
At  this  moment  we  have  before  us  a  radiant  evidence  or 
the  admission  of  the  great  teacher  into  the  Sacred  City  : 
believe  it,  astounded  reader,  Shakespeare  has  gone  farther 
than  NieuhofF.  England,  however — that  England  who  has 
shown  herself  such  an  idolatress  of  her  darling  son — who 
28 


SHAKESPEARE    IN    CHINA        29 

has  encircled  the  house  in  which  he  first  drew  breath  with 
a  golden  rail — who  has  secured  it  from  possible  destruction 
at  the  hands  of  the  bigot,  by  making  it  the  property  of  the 
State — that  England  who,  when  the  tree  planted  by  the 
bard  was  felled  by  the  axe,  wept  as  she  turned  the  timber 
into  'bacco-stoppers 1 — that  England  who,  even  at  the 
present  time,  only  a  little  more  than  two  centuries  after  his 
death,  has  already  begun  to  think  of  the  propriety  of 
erecting,  at  some  future  day,  a  national  monument  to  her 
poet — that  England  cannot,  after  the  many  and  affecting 
instances  of  her  deep  and  maternal  love  towards  her  most 
illustrious  child,  refuse  to  aid  in  the  dissemination  of 
Shakespearanity  in  any  corner  of  the  world,  but  at  the 
present  interesting  crisis,  more  particularly  in  the  empire 
of  China. 

•  The  cry  that  the  Chinese  are  not  yet  fit  for  Shakespeare 
— a  cry  raised  in  the  same  acute  spirit  in  which  people  in 
chains  have  been  said  not  to  be  fit  for  freedom — can,  we 
think,  have  no  bad  effect  on  even  moderately  liberal  men, 
after  the  production  of  papers  now  beneath  our  hands.  All 
we  ask  of  the  Foreign  Minister  is  a  company,  to  act  either 
on  board  Chinese  junks  or  on  shore,  as  the  intellectual 
wants  of  his  Majesty  may  require  ;  nay,  if  under  the  direc- 
tion of  their  own  stage-manager,  to  exhibit  themselves  at 
any  distance  in  the  interior.  The  company  to  be  paid  and 
clothed  by  the  government  for  whose  benefit  they  act,  with 
this  condition,  that  they  be  subject  to  the  laws  and  customs 
of  the  Chinese,  obediently  shaving  their  eyebrows  and 
letting  their  tails  grow.  For  the  passing  difficulty  of  the 
language,  that,  we  have  no  doubt,  will  soon  be  overcome ; 
many  of  the  actors,  we  religiously  believe  it,  speaking  and 
playing  equally  well  in  English  or  in  Chinese.  We  now 
come  to  the  proofs  of  the  fit  condition  of  the  people  for 

1  The  Mulberry-tree  was  cut  down  ;  and  the  race  of  Gastrels 
is  not  extinct. 


30       SHAKESPEARE    IN    CHINA 

Shakespeare — for  that  which  they  will  "  hail  as  a  boon," 
and  which  we  shall  part  with  as  a  drug. 

Some  months  since,  it  was  our  fortune  to  be  present 
at  an  auction  of  curiosities  from  the  East — shells,  parrots, 
rice-paper,  chop-sticks,  japanned  cabinets,  and  cut-throat 
sparrows.  Our  friend  Peregrine — he  had  just  arrived  from 
the  Great  Pyramid,  from  the  top  of  which,  and  by  means  of  a 
most  excellent  glass,  he  had  discovered,  and  afterwards  made 
captive,  three  giraffes — bade  money  for  a  picture.  As  it  was 
a  scene  from  Shakespeare,  there  were  of  course  no  opposing 
bidders,  and  he  became  the  owner  of  what  proved  to  be  an 
exquisite  evidence  of  Chinese  art  and  imitation  ;  in  brief, 
no  other  than  a  copy  faithfully  drawn,  and  most  brilliantly 
coloured  by  an  artist  at  Canton  of  the  Boydell  picture  of 
Falstaff  in  the  Buck-basket,  and  the  Merry  Wives.  The 
picture,  however,  proved  in  itself  to  be  of  little  value  com- 
pared to  the  essay  found  to  be  inserted  at  the  back  between 
the  picture  and  the  frame  ;  being  written  on  paper,  half  a 
quire  of  which  would  not  exceed  the  thickness  of  a  butterfly's 
wing,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the  treasure  escaped  even  the 
meritorious  vigilance  of  an  auctioneer.  It  is  this  essay  that 
we  now  propose  to  submit  to  the  reader,  in  evidence  of  the 
condition  of  China  for  an  instant  export  of  a  company  or 
fine  Shakespearian  actors.  When  we  state  that  the  essay  has 
been  printed  by  its  author  in  at  least  one  of  the  Canton 
journals,  the  dissemination  and  adoption  of  the  principles 
comprised  in  it,  over  the  whole  of  China,  cannot  for  half  a 
moment  be  a  matter  of  doubt. 

We  regret  that  we  cannot  wholly  acquit  our  intelligent 
Mandarin  of  the  taint  of  ingratitude.  It  is  evident  that  his 
views  of  English  history — at  least  of  that  portion  in  which 
Falstaff  conspicuously  appears,  for  the  writer  suffers  no 
subject  to  escape  in  any  way  involved  in  the  character  of 
the  immortal  knight — have  been  gathered  from  one  of  our 
fellow  countrymen  ;   he  has,  if  we  may  be  allowed  to  say 


SHAKESPEARE    IN    CHINA        31 

it,  sucked  the  brain,  as  a  "weasel  sucks  eggs,"  of  some 
enlightened  but  obscure  supercargo  whom  he  has  left  un- 
honoured  and  unthanked.  How  different,  in  a  similar  case, 
was  the  conduct  of  an  Englishman  :  our  deep  veneration  of 
the  national  character  will  not,  at  this  happy  moment,  suffer 
us  to  be  silent  on  the  grateful  magnanimity  of  Mr  Nahum 
Tate,  who,  in  his  preface  to  his  improved  version  of  King 
Lear,  returns  his  "  thanks  to  an  ingenious  friend  who  first 
pointed  out  the  tragedy "  to  his  condescending  notice  ! 
The  silence  of  the  Mandarin  towards  his  instructor  is  the 
more  strange,  as  ingratitude  is  not  the  vice  of  the  barbarian. 
An  ingenious  friend  points  out  a  skulking,  unarmed  straggler 
to  a  Cossack  ;  the  soldier  makes  him  prisoner,  cuts  off  his 
ears,  slits  his  nose,  bores  his  tongue,  and  having  mounted  the 
captive  behind  him,  in  the  cordial  spirit  of  Nahum  Tate, 
"  thanks  his  ingenious  friend  "  for  his  information  !  But  it 
is  so  ;  in  this  particular  our  mandarin  fails  in  comparison 
with  the  Cossack  and  with  Nahum  Tate. 

We  now  lay  before  the  reader  the  Essay  of  Ching  the 
Mandarin,  who,  it  will  be  seen,  in  his  orders  to  the  painter 
employed  to  copy  the  original  picture — by  whom  taken  to 
China  remains  unknown — has,  with  national  exactness,  given 
the  birth  and  education  not  only  of  the  author  of  Falstaff, 
but  of  Falstaff  himself,  together  with  glancing  notices  of — 
Windsor  wives  and  Windsor  soap. 

It  is,  perhaps,  only  due  to  the  translator,  to  state  that  by 
our  express  solicitation  he  has  a  little  lowered  the  orientalism 
of  the  original,  whilst  he  has  at  the  same  time  endeavoured 
to  preserve  the  easy,  conversational  tone  of  the  educated 
Chinese. 

"CHING    TO    TING. 

"  I  send,  O  Ting,  from  the  barbarian  ship,  a  picture  of 
barbarians.  Make  one  for  your  friend,  like  unto  it ;  in 
size,  in  shape,  and  colour,  even  the  same.      But  why  should 


32        SHAKESPEARE    IN    CHINA 

I  waste  words  with  Ting,  whose  pencil  is  true  as  the  tongue 
of  Confutzee  ?  No  ;  I  will  straightway  deliver  to  him  all 
my  studies  have  made  known  to  me  of  the  barbarians  written 
on  the  canvas  before  him  :  for  how  can  even  Ting  paint  the 
faces  of  barbarians  in  their  very  truth,  if  he  knows  not  the 
history  not  only  of  themselves  but  of  their  fathers  ? 

"  The  he  barbarian  with  the  big  belly  was  called  ForlstofF, 
and  in  time  was  known  as  Surgeon  ForlstofF:  from  which, 
there  is  no  doubt,  he  was  a  skilful  leech  in  the  army  of  the 
barbarian  king,  more  of  whom  in  good  season.  ForlstofFs 
father  was  one  Shak  or  Shake,  Speare  or  Spear  ;  for  there 
have  been  great  tumults  among  the  barbarians  about  the  e. 
In  nothing  does  the  ignorance  of  the  English  barbarians 
more  lamentably  discover  itself  than  in  the  origin  they 
obstinately  give  to  their  Shakespeare  ;  who,  according  to 
them,  was,  like  the  great  Brahme,  hatched  in  an  egg  on  the 
bank  of  a  river,  as  may  be  seen  in  a  thousand  idle  books  in 
which  he  is  called  the  *  Swan  of  Haveone.'  And  this  con- 
ceit was  further  manifested  in  the  building  of  a  place  called 
'the  Swan  Theatre/  where  the  barbarians  were  wont  to 
worship.  There  is  little  known  of  Shakespeare's  wife,  Forl- 
stofPs  mother,  and  that  little  proves  her  to  have  been  an 
idle  person,  given  to  great  sleep  and  sloth,  as  is  shown  by 
her  getting  nothing  at  the  death  of  her  husband  but  his 
*  second-best  bed  !  ' 

"  If  Forlstoff  would  not,  at  a  later  time  of  life,  leave  off 
stealing,  there  is  little  doubt  that  he  owed  the  fault  to  his 
father,  Shakespeare,  who  was  forced  to  fly  to  London, 
which  is  a  sacred  city  for  all  thieves,  for  having  stolen  an 
antelope,  an  animal  consecrated  to  the  higher  kinds  of 
barbarians,  and  which  it  is  death  for  the  poor  to  touch. 
Indeed,  the  flesh  of  the  antelope  is  to  be  eaten  with  safety 
by  very  few  of  the  barbarians,  it  having  killed  even  many  of 
the  Eldermen  immediately  after  dinner. 

"  When  Shakespeare  came  to   London  he  was  poor  aud 


SHAKESPEARE    IN    CHINA        33 

without  friends,  and  he  held  the  horses  of  the  rich 
barbarians  who  came  to  worship  at  a  temple  on  the  banks 
of  the  river.  In  time  he  learned  to  make  shoes  for  the 
horses  ;  and  in  such  esteem  are  the  shoes  still  held  by  the 
barbarians,  that  they  are  bought  at  any  price,  and  nailed  at 
the  threshold  of  their  houses  and  barns ;  for  where  they 
are  nailed,  the  foolish  natives  think  no  fire,  no  pestilence 
will  come,  and  no  evil  thing  have  any  strength.  Such  is 
the  silly  idolatry  of  the  barbarians. 

"  At  length  Shakespeare  got  admitted  into  the  temple  ; 
and  there  he  showed  himself  master  of  the  greatest  arts  ; 
and  he  wrote  charms  upon  paper  which,  it  is  said,  will 
make  a  man  weep  or  laugh  with  very  happiness, — will  bring 
spirits  from  the  sky  and  devils  from  the  water, — will  open 
the  heart  of  a  man  and  show  what  creeps  within  it, — will 
now  snatch  a  crown  from  a  king,  and  now  put  wings  to  the 
back  of  a  beggar.  And  all  this  they  say  Shakespeare  did, 
and  studied  not.  No,  beloved  Ting,  he  was  not  like  Sing, 
who,  though  but  a  poor  cowherd,  became  wise  by  poring 
on  his  book  spread  between  the  horns  of  his  cow,  he 
travelling  on  her  back. 

"  And  Shakespeare  proceeded  in  his  marvels,  and  he 
became  rich  ;  and  even  the  queen  of  the  barbarians  was 
seen  to  smile  at  him,  and  once,  with  a  burning  look,  to 
throw  her  glove  at  him  ;  but  Shakespeare,  it  is  said,  to  the 
discomfiture  of  the  queen,  returned  the  glove,  taking  no 
further  notice  of  the  amatory  invitation. 

"  In  a  ripe  season  of  his  life  Shakespeare  gave  up  con- 
juring, and  returned  to  the  village  on  the  banks  of  the  river 
Haveone,  where,  as  it  is  ignorantly  believed,  he  was  hatched, 
and  where  he  lived  in  the  fulness  of  fortune.  He  had  laid 
down  his  conjuring-rod  and  taken  off  his  gown,  and  passed 
for  nothing  more  than  a  man,  and,  it  is  said — though  you, 
beloved  Ting,  who  see  the  haughty  eyes  and  curling  noses 
of  the  lesser  man  mandarins,  can,  after  what  I  have  writ  of 

c 


34 


SHAKESPEARE    IN    CHINA 


by  por/riA   cr\  ki>  book 


by  ponnd 


Shakespeare,  hardly  believe  it — thought  himself  nothing 
more. 

"  Shakespeare  built  himself  a  house  and  planted  a  tree. 
The  house  is  gone,  but  the  barbarians  preserve  bricks  of  it 
in  their  inner  chambers,  even — I  tremble  as  I  pen  it — as 
we  preserve  the  altars  of  our  gods. 

"  The  tree  was  cut  down  by  a  fakir  in  a  brain  fever,  but 
the  wood  is  still  worshipped.  And  this,  O  Ting  !  I  would 
not  ask  you  to  believe  had  not  your  own  eyes  witnessed 
that  wonderful  tree,1  the  leaves  whereof,  falling  to  the 
ground,   become   mice !      Hence  learn   that  the  leaves   of 

1  See  Navarrete's  Chinaiox  the  account  of  this  tree  ;  underneath 
which,  we  humbly  suggest,  it  would  be  as  well  to  keep  a  cat. 


SHAKESPEARE    IN    CHINA        35 

Shakespeare's  mulberry  have  become  men,  and  on  a 
certain  day  every  year,  with  mulberry  boughs  about  their 
heads,, their  bodies  clothed  in  their  richest  garments,  they 
chant  praises  to  the  memory  of  Shakespeare,  and  drink 
wine  to  his  name. 

"  Shakespeare — ForlstofFs  father,  and  the  father  of  a 
hundred  lusty  sons  and  daughters,  such  as  until  that  time 
had  never  been  born,  Shakespeare — died  !  He  was  buried 
in  a  chest  of  cedar,  set  about  with  plates  of  gold.  On  one 
of  these  plates  was  writ  some  magic  words ;  for  thieves, 
breaking  into  the  grave,  were  fixed  and  changed  to  stone ; 
and  are  now  to  be  seen  even  as  they  were  first  struck  by  the 
charm  of  the  magician.  And  so  much,  beloved  Ting,  of 
Shakespeare,  ForlstofFs  father." 

That  our  Mandarin  has  herein  displayed  very  popular 
abilities  for  the  difficult  task  of  a  commentator,  no  one 
who  has  read  many  volumes  of  Shakespearian  commentaries 
will,  we  believe,  deny.  It  is  observable  that  in  many 
instances  he  makes  his  facts ;  a  custom  of  particular 
advantage  to  the  indulgence  of  the  most  peculiar  opinions 
and  conclusions.  We  have  read  some  writers  who,  deprived 
of  this  privilege,  would  really  have  nothing  to  work  upon. 
The  pleasure  of  making  a  giant,  great  as  it  possibly  may 
be,  cannot  be  comparable  to  the  delight  of  killing  him, 
our  own  handiwork.  If,  however,  our  reader  will  bear  with 
us,  we  will  proceed  with  the  laboursN  of  Ching  on  the 
character  of  FalstafF,  and  on  those  personages  and  events, 
directly  and  indirectly,  associated  with  his  glorious  name. 
FalstafF  in  China  !      Jack  FalstafF  on  a  regimen  of  rice  ! 

11  ForlstofF  was  born  in  the  third  hour  of  the  morning  ; 
and  at  his  birth  the  roundness  of  his  belly  and  the  white- 
ness of  his  head  betokened  his  future  greatness.  But  little 
is  known  of  his  early  life  ;  save  that  he  assisted  in  the 
temples  of  the  barbarians,  where  his  voice,  once  remarkable 
for  its  sweetness,  became  broken  with  the  zeal  of  the  singer. 


36        SHAKESPEARE    IN    CHINA 

He  then  travelled  with  a  juggler,  and — if  lying  were  not  the 
especial  vice  of  the  barbarians — did  greater  wonders  than 
even  our  own  Yiyi.  The  Elder  men  of  London — so  named 
because  chosen  from  the  oldest  inhabitants — are  known  by 
a  ring  upon  the  thumb  ;  this  ring  ForlstofF,  to  the  admira- 
tion of  the  barbarian  court,  crept  through  and  through  like 
any  worm,  and  was  promoted  by  the  king  therefore.  I 
should,  however,  do  evil  unto  truth  did  I  not  advise  you, 
O  Ting,  that  this  feat  of  ForlstofF  seems  greater  than 
it  really  is :  for  a  tame  eagle  being  kept  at  the  court  of 
the  king,  it  was  afterwards  discovered  that  a  talon  of 
the  bird  was  something  thicker  than  the  waist  of  the  said 
ForlstofF. 

"  It  is  certain  that  ForlstofF,  a  short  time  after  his  feat 
with  the  ring,  became  a  student  in  a  place  called  Clemency 
Inn ;  which,  as  its  name  implies,  is  a  temple  wherein 
youths  study  to  become  meek  and  merciful,  to  love  all  men 
as  brothers  of  their  own  flesh,  and  to  despise  the  allurements 
of  wealth.  There  was  with  him  another  student,  called 
Robert  Shaller,  who  afterwards  became  a  mandarin,  or,  in 
the  barbarian  tongue,  a  justice  of  the  peace,  being  promoted 
to  that  office  because  he  was  like  a  double  radish,  and 
had  his  head  carved  with  a  knife.  He  was,  when  at 
Clemency  Inn,  dressed  in  an  eel-skin,  and  used  to  sleep 
in  a  lute-case.  He  lent  ForlstofF  what  the  barbarians 
call  a  thousand  pounds,  which  ForlstofF  was  honest  enough 
to — acknowledge. 

"  I  next  find  ForlstofF  in  company  with  one  Princeal, 
the  son  of  the  barbarian  king,  and  several  thieves.  Forl- 
stofF— and  here  the  vice  of  his  father,  Shakespeare,  breaks 
out  in  the  child — tempts  the  king's  son  to  turn  robber. 
He  is,  however,  so  ashamed  of  the  wickedness,  that  he 
goes  about  it  with  a  mask  on  his  face,  as  a  king's  son 
ought. 

"  ForlstofF  falls  into  disgrace  with  Princeal,  and  is  sent  by 


SHAKESPEARE    IN    CHINA        37 

him  with  soldiers  to  Coventry ;  that  being  a  place  in  the 
barbarian  country  where  no  man  speaks  to  his  neighbour. 
After  some  delay  ForlstofF  marches  through  Coventry  to 
fight  one  Pursy,  who  can  ride  up  a  straight  hill,  and  is 
therefore  called  Hotspur.  ForlstofF  fights  with  him  by — 
that  is,  near  a  clock,  and  kills  him,  Princeal,  the  king's 
son,  meanly  endeavouring  to  deprive  ForlstofF  of  the 
honour. 

"  After  the  battle  ForlstofF  goes  to  dine  with  the  king  at 
Wincer,  which  is  the  royal  manufactory  for  soap.  ForlstofF 
pretends  to  love  two  wives  at  the  same  time,  and  is  put  by 
them  in  what  is  called  by  the  barbarians  a  ^i-basket— 
that  is  a  basket  for  the  finer  sort  of  barbarians,  their  word 
buck  answering  to  our  push,  and  meaning  high,  handsome, 
grand.  He  is  flung  into  the  river,  and  saves  himself  by 
swimming  to  a  garter.  He  is  afterwards  punished  by  being 
turned  into  the  royal  forest,  with  horns  upon  his  head  and 
chains  upon  his  hands.  Princeal,  in  time,  becomes  king, 
and  discards  ForlstofF,  who  goes  home — goes  to  bed — does 
nothing  but  look  at  the  ends  of  his  fingers,  talks  of  the 
green  fields  about  Wincer,  and  dies. 

"For  the  habits  of  ForlstofF,  if  they  were  not  quite  as 
virtuous  as  those  of  Fo,  it  was  perhaps  the  fault  of  his 
times  ;  for  we  have  his  own  words  to  prove  that  they  were 
once  those  of  the  best  barbarians.  He  swore  but  few  oaths 
— gambled  but  once  a  day — paid  his  debts  four  times — and 
took  recreation  only  when  he  cared  for  it.  He  loved 
sack — a  liquor  that  has  puzzled  the  heads  of  the  learned 
—  without  eggs,  and  was  extraordinarily  temperate  in 
bread. 

"  His  companions  were  thieves  of  the  highest  repute — 
but  all,  unhappily,  died  and  left  no  sons  ! 

"  You  will  now,  oh  wise  and  virtuous  Ting,  directed  by 
these  few  and  feeble  words,  paint  me  the  picture  of  ForlstofF 
and  his  two  wives. " 


3* 


SHAKESPEARE    IN   CHINA 


We  put  it  to  the  impartial  reader  whether  Ching,  in 
the  above  estimate  of  the  character  of  FalstafF,  has  not 
entitled  himself  to  take  rank  with  many  Shakespearian 
commentators  ;  and  whether,  if  the  Foreign  Minister  will 
not  consent  to  ship  a  company  of  English  actors  to  Canton, 
Ching  should  not  be  invited  by  the  patrons  of  the  British 
drama  to  preside  in  a  London  theatre. 


SOLOMONS  APE 

"For  the  king  had  at  sea  a  navy  of  Tharshish  with  the  navy 
of  Hiram :  once  in  three  years  came  the  navy  of  Tharshish, 
bringing  gold,  and  silver,  ivory,  and  apes,  and  peacocks." — Kings. 


A  learned  rabbi,  Ben  Eli,  had  filled  three  thick  MS. 
folios  with  the  adventures  of  a  certain  ape,  a  sojourner  at 
the  court  of  the  wisest  of  kings.  Though  the  work  has 
hitherto  been  withheld  from  the  world,  it  seems  not  un- 
likely that  it  has  long  been  the  acknowledged  model  of 
many  biographies.  We  conceive  there  is  internal  evidence 
in  the  history  of  thousands  of  courtiers,  that  the  writers 
were  aware  how  much  the  erudite  Ben  Eli  could  make  of 
an  ape.  They  who  have  gravely  registered  the  slightest 
formality,  the  most  evanescent  word  or  gesture  of  certain 
heroes,  must  have  had  in  their  memory  the  first  chronicler 
of  monkey  tricks.  There  was  a  time  when  it  would  have 
been  the  simplest  and  safest  course  to  publish  the  entire 
folio :  in  former  days,  readers  were  like  hogs,  whose 
master  had  the  right  of  pannage  :  they  were  turned  into 
the  literary  forest  to  root,  and  grub  up,  and  become  a3  fat 
as  they  might.     Now,  it  is  not  enough  to  show  them  the 


4o  SOLOMON'S    APE 


tree  of  knowledge  ;  but  it  is  compulsory  on  those  who 
drive  the  "dreadful  trade,"  to  clamber  the  branches,  and 
gather  the  fruit.  Nay,  and  when  gathered,  the  apple  serves 
not  the  epicure  of  our  day,  if  it  be  not  carefully  pared  and 
sliced ;  and,  in  some  instances,  presented  on  a  fork  of 
standard  gold  or  silver.  Moreover,  cases  have  happened 
wherein  the  quality  of  the  fork  hath  been  cavilled  for,  more 
than  that  of  the  apple  :  thus,  an  embossed  implement  hath 
at  times  passed  off  a  sorry  crab.  Once  it  was  enough  for 
wisdom  to  point  out  the  wood  where  grew  the  nuts :  now 
must  she  gather  and  crack  them. 

Thus  much  by  way  of  feeble  apology  for  the  licence  we 
have  taken  with  the  folios  of  the  venerable  Ben  Eli.  We 
have  wandered  through  their  forest  of  leaves ;  we  have 
picked  all  we  could  lay  our  hands  upon ;  we  have  torn 
away  the  husk — have  broken  the  shell — and  for  the  few 
kernels — gentle  feeder,  some  of  them  are  before  you. 

u  And  the  ape  became  a  favourite  with  the  servants  of 
Solomon.  And  the  women  smiled  upon  him,  and  the  men  • 
laughed  at  his  grimace ;  and  the  ape  was  puffed  with  pride, 
and  became  a  proverb  to  the  wise.  And  the  ape  forgot  the 
mother  that  bore  him,  and  the  father  that  begat  him,  and  the 
wood  which,  in  the  days  of  his  youth,  did  give  him  shadow. 
And — brief  be  the  words — the  ape  forgot  he  was  an  ape. 

"  There  was  a  strange  woman  in  the  court  of  King  Solomon. 
She  was  beautiful  as  light ;  and  many  men  did  try  for  the  love 
of  the  strange  woman ;  for  she  was  a  princess  in  her  own 
country. 

"  And  it  fell,  that  the  woman  looked  from  her  window, 
and  beheld  in  the  court  below  the  ape  stretched,  sleeping 
in  the  sun :  for  it  was  high  noon,  and  there  was  silence  on 
all  things.  But  in  the  heart  of  the  strange  woman  there 
was  no  peace,  for  she  thought  of  her  father's  tents. 

M  And  the  ape  awoke,  and,  looking  upward,  beheld  the 
strange  woman.     And  there  was  vanity  in  his  heart,  and 


SOLOMON'S    APE  41 

he  still  looked  upward.  And  the  captive  woman  had  com- 
passion on  the  creature,  and,  believing  that  he  hungered, 
cast  him  down  a  ripe  pomegranate.  And  the  ape  did  eat 
the  pomegranate,  and  did  lick  his  lips,  and  did  say  in  his 
heart,  '  Of  a  truth,  the  strange  woman  doth  love  me.' 

"  And  the  next  day,  at  the  same  hour,  the  ape  watched 
under  the  window  of  the  strange  woman,  and  again  she  did 
throw  him  fruit,  which  he  did  eat,  and  again  did  cry,  *  Nay, 
it  is  certain  she  doth  love  me.' 

«'  And  the  same  thing  came  to  pass  on  the  third  and 
fourth  day. 

"  And  in  the  stillness  of  the  fifth  day,  when  sleep  lay 
upon  the  lids  of  the  household,  the  ape  did  clamber  the 
wall  which  did  shut  in  the  strange  woman.  And  as  he 
clomb,  a  voice  still  cried  in  his  heart,  *  She  doth  love  me.' 

"And  the  ape  clambered  up  to  the  window  of  the 
strange  woman ;  and  when  she  saw  the  monster,  she  filled 
the  chamber  with  her  screams,  and  shrieked  for  help. 
And  the  servants  of  the  chamber  came  to  her  aid ;  and 
the  court  was  filled  with  a  multitude. 

u  And  the  woman  entreated  to  be  saved  from  the  ape ; 
but  the  ape  understood  not  her  words,  for  still  he  said  to 
himself,  *  She  doth  love  me.' 

"  And  the  men  took  staves,  and  did  beat  and  bruise  the  ape, 
but  the  ape  was  not  convinced  ;  for  yet  he  said,  *  It  is  plain  she 
dothloveme.'  And  the  ape  fell  wounded  into  the  court  beneath. 

"  And  when  they  inquired  of  the  matter,  the  woman 
said,  *  I  thought  the  ape  did  hunger,  and  I  took  compassion 
on  his  misery,  and  threw  to  him  a  pomegranate.' 

"  Then  a  wise  man  said  to  the  woman — *  Daughter,  let 
not  beauty  give  gifts  unto  fools  ;  for  out  of  the  kindness  of 
her  heart  do  they  misinterpret ;  and  in  the  very  offerings  of 
her  compassion  do  they  breed  an  ill  report.' 

"  And  even  as  the  wise  man  said  these  things,  the  ape 
lay  in  the  court  beneath,  and  did  lick  his  sore,  and  did  blow 


42  SOLOMON'S    APE 

the  pouches  of  his  cheeks,  and  cried,  *  It  is  manifest,  the 
strange  woman  doth  love  me.' 

"  There  were  two  jugglers  in  the  train  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba. 
And  they  played,  each  with  a  serpent,  before  King  Solomon. 

"  Now  the  queen  sought  to  prove  the  knowledge  of  the 
king,  and  said, — *  Oh,  Solomon,  thou  who  hast  spoken  of 
trees,  from  the  cedar  to  the  hyssop — also  of  beasts,  and  of 
fowls,  and  of  creeping  things,  and  of  fishes  ; 

"  ■  Declare  unto  thy  servant,  which  of  the  two  is  the  true 
serpent  (for  one  was  cunningly  fashioned  like  unto  a  living 
snake,  and  did  move  and  writhe  in  the  hands  of  the  juggler); 
for,  of  a  truth,  there  is  but  one  of  the  two  that  hath  life.' 

"  And  the  jugglers  played  with  the  snakes  before  the  seat 
of  King  Solomon. 

"  Then  the  king  did  privily  send  for  the  ape  ;  and  when 
he  was  brought  in,  the  king  caused  him  to  be  led  near  unto 
the  jugglers. 

"  And  the  ape  passed  one  of  the  men  who  played  with 
a  snake,  and  took  no  note  thereof;  but  as  he  approached 
the  fellow  who  held  the  second  snake,  the  ape  did  shake, 
and  his  hair  did  rise  upon  his  skin,  and  he  trembled  ex- 
ceedingly ;  wherefore  King  Solomon  discovered  the  true 
snake,  and  all  men  praised  the  wisdom  of  the  king.1 

"  Now  the  ape  discovered  that  he  had  been  made  the  judge 
between  the  true  and  the  false  snake,  and  his  head  did  swell 
with  the  shouting,  and  he  was  puffed  up  with  vain  glory. 

*'  And  after  some  days  a  multitude  stood  before  the 
judgment  porch.  And  a  strife  had  arisen  between  two 
carvers — skilful  workmen  were  they  both. 

"  Palm-trees,  and  open  flowers,  and  every  manner  of 
curious  carving  had  they  carved. 

"  And  they  both  claimed  certain  carvings  of  cherubim. 
And  when  they  had  spoken  and  called  their  witnesses,  King 
Solomon  paused  to  consider  before  he  delivered  judgment. 

1  See  Rabbinical  stories  for  a  parallel  case. 


SOLOMON'S    APE  45 

"  It  so  chanced  that  the  ape  had  crept  among  the  multitude, 
and  had  listened  to  the  story  of  the  carvers  ;  and  when  he  saw 
the  king  pause,  he  said  to  himself,  *  Solomon  is  perplexed.' 

"  And  the  ape  brake  through  the  multitude, and  ran  to  the 
porch,  and  did  motion  that  he  would  judge  between  the  carvers. 

"  And  the  ape  did  leap  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  one, 
and  did  caress  him ;  but  at  the  other  he  did  scream,  and 
grind  his  teeth.  And  Solomon  understood  the  folly  of  the 
ape,  and  cried  : — 

"  *  It  is  ever  so  with  the  fool.  Allow  him  the  wisdom 
that  perceiveth  and  shunneth  a  serpent,  and  straightway  he 
will  believe  he  hath  understanding  to  judge  even  between 
the  cherubim.'  " 

At  present  we  must  end  our  extracts  from  the  pages  of 
Ben  Eli  ;  though  we  cannot  close  without  appending  the 
final  reflection  of  the  learned  rabbi,  who,  having  narrated  a 
thousand  other  instances  of  the  folly  of  the  ape— how  he 
pilfered  from  the  treasury,  how  he  stole  jewels  to  hang 
about  him,  and  how  he  plucked  bare  divers  peacocks  to 
make  himself  a  glory  from  their  plumes,  observes  : — 

M  An  ape  will  ever  be  an  ape,  though  compassed  with  gold, 
and  silver,  and  ivory,  and  though  his  dwelling-place  be  even  the 
court  of  King  Solomon ." 


THE  CASTLE  BUILDERS  OF  R\DUA 

Giulio  and  Ippolito  were  sons  of  a  farmer  living  near 
Padua.  The  old  man  was  of  a  quiet  and  placable  temper, 
rarely  suffering  any  mischance  to  ruffle  him,  but,  in  the 
firm  and  placid  hope  of  the  future,  tranquillising  himself 
under  the  evil  of  the  present.  If  blight  came  upon  his  corn 
one  year,  he  would  say  'twere  a  rare  thing  to  have  blights  in 
two  successive  seasons  ;  and  so  he  would  hope  that  the  next 
harvest,  in  its  abundance,  might  more  than  compensate  for 
the  scarcity  of  the  last.  Thus  he  lived  from  boyhood  to 
age,  and  retained  in  the  features  of  the  old  man  a  some- 
thing of  the  lightness  and  vivacity  of  youth.  His  sons, 
however,  bore  no  resemblance  to  their  father.  Instead  of 
labouring  on  the  farm  they  wasted  their  time  in  idly  wishing 
that  fortune  had  made  them,  in  lieu  of  healthy,  honest  sons 
of  a  farmer,  the  children  of  some  rich  magnifico,  that  so  they 
might  have  passed  their  days  in  all  the  sports  of  the  times, 
in  jousting,  hunting,  and  in  studying  the  fashions  of  brave 
46 


THE    CASTLE    BUILDERS  47 

apparel.  They  were  of  a  humour  at  once  impetuous  and 
sulky,  and  would  either  idly  mope  about  the  farm,  or 
violently  abuse  and  ill-treat  whomsoever  accident  might 
throw  in  their  way.  The  old  man  was  inly  grieved  at  the 
wilfulness  and  disobedience  of  his  sons,  but,  with  his  usual 
disposition,  hoped  that  time  might  remedy  the  evil ;  and  so, 
but  rarely  reproving  them,  they  were  left  sole  masters  of 
their  hours  and  actions. 

One  night,  after  supper,  the  brothers  walked  into  the 
garden  to  give  loose  to  their  idle  fancies,  always  yearning 
after  matters  visionary  and  improbable.  It  was  a  glorious 
night,  the  moon  was  at  the  full,  and  myriads  of  stars  glowed 
in  the  deep  blue  firmament.  The  air  stirred  among  the 
trees  and  flowers,  wafting  abroad  their  sweetness  ;  the  dew 
glittered  on  the  leaves,  and  a  deep-voiced  nightingale, 
perched  in  a  citron  tree,  poured  forth  a  torrent  of  song 
upon  the  air.  It  was  an  hour  for  good  thoughts  and  holy 
aspirations.  Giulio  threw  himself  upon  a  bank,  and,  after 
gazing  with  intentness  at  the  sky,  exclaimed  : — 

"  Would  that  I  had  fields  ample  as  the  heavens  above 
us!  " 

"  I  would,"  rejoined  Ippolito,  "  I  had  as  many  sheep  as 
there  are  stars." 

"  And  what,"  asked  Giulio,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  "  would 
your  wisdom  do  with  them  ?  " 

"Marry,"  replied  Ippolito,  "I  would  pasture  them  in 
your  sageship's  fields." 

"  What!  "  exclained  Giulio,  suddenly  raising  himself  upon 
his  elbow,  and  looking  with  an  eye  of  fire  upon  his  brother  ; 
"  whether  I  would  or  not  ?  " 

M  Truly,  ay,"  said  Ippolito,  with  a  stubborn  significance 
of  manner. 

"  Have  a  care,"  cried  Giulio,  "  have  a  care,  Ippolito  ; 
do  not  thwart  me.      Am  I  not  your  elder  brother  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;   and  marry,  what  of  that  ?    Though  you  came  first 


48         THE    CASTLE    BUILDERS 

into  the  world,  I  trow  you  left  some  manhood  for  him  who 
followed  after.' ' 

"You  do  not  mean  to  insist  that,  despite  my  will,  despite 
the  determination  of  your  elder  brother,  you  will  pasture 
your  sheep  in  my  grounds  ?  '•' 

"  In  truth  but  I  do." 

"  And  that,"  rejoined  Giulio,  his  cheek  flushing,  and  his 
lip  tremulous,  "and  that  without  fee  or  recompense  ? " 

"  Assuredly." 

Giulio  leaped  to  his  feet,  and,  dashing  his  clenched  hand 
against  a  tree,  with  a  face  full  of  passion,  and  in  a  voice  made 
terrible  by  rage,  he  screamed,  rather  than  said,  "  By  the 
Blessed  Virgin  but  you  do  not !  " 

"And  by  St  Ursula  and  her  eleven  thousand  virgins  I 
protest  I  will."  This  was  uttered  by  Ippolito  in  a  tone  of 
banter  and  bravado  that  for  a  moment  made  the  excited 
frame  of  Giulio  quiver  from  head  to  foot.  He  gazed  at  the 
features  of  Ippolito,  all  drawn  into  a  sneer,  and  for  a 
moment  gnashed  his  teeth.  He  was  hastily  approaching 
the  scoffer,  when,  by  an  apparently  strong  effort,  he  arrested 
himself,  and,  turning  upon  his  heel,  struck  hastily  down 
another  path,  where  he  might  be  seen  pacing  with  short, 
quick  steps,  whilst  Ippolito,  leaning  against  a  tree,  carelessly 
sang  a  few  lines  of  a  serenata.  This  indifference  was  too 
much  for  Giulio  ;  he  stopped  short,  turned,  and  then  rapidly 
came  up  to  Ippolito,  and  with  a  manner  of  attempted  tran- 
quillity, said,  "  Ippolito,  I  do  not  wish  to  quarrel  with  you ; 
I  am  your  elder  brother ;   then  give  up  the  point." 

"Not  I,"  replied  Ippolito,  with  the  same  immovable 
smile. 

"  What,  then,  you  are  determined  that  your  sheep  shall, 
in  very  despite  of  me,  pasture  in  my  fields  ?  " 

"  They  shall." 

"  Villain  !  "  raved  Giulio ;  and  ere  the  word  was  well 
uttered  he  had  dashed   his  clenched  hand  in  his  brother's 


OF    PADUA  49 

face.  Ippolito  sprang  like  a  wild  beast  at  Giulio,  and  for  a 
moment  they  stood  with  a  hand  at  each  other's  throat,  and 
their  eyes,  in  the  words  of  the  Psalmist,  were  "whetted  " 
on  one  another.  They  stood  but  to  gain  breath,  then 
grappled  closer.  Ippolito  threw  his  brother  to  the  earth, 
huddling  his  knees  upon  him,  furious  blows  were  exchanged, 
but  scarce  a  sound  was  uttered,  save  at  intervals  a  blas- 
phemous oath  or  a  half- strangled  groan.  Giulio  was  com- 
pletely overpowered  by  the  superior  strength  and  cooler 
temper  of  his  brother  ;  but,  lying  prostrate  and  conquered, 
his  hands  pinioned  to  his  breast,  and  Ippolito  glaring  at 
him  with  malicious  triumph,  he  cursed  and  spat  at  him. 
Ippolito  removed  his  hand  from  his  brother's  throat,  and 
ere  his  pulse  could  beat,  Giulio's  poniard  was  in  his  brother's 
heart.  He  gave  a  loud  shriek,  and  fell  a  streaming  corpse 
upon  his  murderer.  The  father,  roused  by  the  sound,  came 
hurrying  to  the  garden ;  Giulio,  leaping  from  under  the  dead 
body,  rushed  by  the  old  man,  who  was  all  too  speedily 
bending  over  his  murdered  child.  From  that  hour  hope 
and  tranquillity  forsook  the  father ;  he  became  a  brain-sick, 
querulous  creature,  and  in  a  few  months  died  almost  an 
idiot.  Guilio  joined  a  party  of  robbers,  and,  after  a  brief 
but  dark  career  of  crime,  was  shot  by  the  sbirri. 

Ye  who  would  build  castles  in  the  air — who  would  slay 
your  hours  with  foolish  and  unprofitable  longings — ponder 
on  the  visionary  fields,  the  ideal  sheep  of  Giulio  and 
I  ppolito. 


THE  TAPESTRY  WEAVER  OF  &EAUVAIS 

The  oldest  people  of  Beauvais  remembered  Schatten  the 
tapestry  weaver.  Some  vowed  he  was  threescore,  some  a 
hundred  years  old  ;  and  ever  as  the  subject  was  touched 
upon,  Schatten  would  widen  his  huge  mouth,  and  cry  with 
a  low  chuckle,  **  Ay,  ay,  a  thousand— more  or  less.  I  shall 
live  to  see  wrinkles  in  the  sun."  None  knew  from  what 
stock  he  sprang — from  what  land  he  came.  Such  questions 
he  would  ever  parry  with  some  extravagance.  "  I  was  born 
of  felspar  and  quartz,  and  my  home  was  the  Hartz  Moun- 
tains when  they  were  no  bigger  than  mole-hills."  And 
thus  Schatten  lived  on.  He  saw  the  child  rise  into  man- 
hood— wed — become  a  parent — a  grey-headed  man — a 
corpse  ;  and  so  with  the  child's  child,  and  yet  no  change 
came  upon  Schatten.  He  stood,  a  flinty  image  gazing  on 
dying  generations. 

A  hovel  in  an  obscure  part  of  Beauvais  was  the  dwelling 
of  the  weaver.  There  was  his  tapestry  loom  ;  and  there, 
day  after  day,  and  night  after  night,  would  he  work,  at  times 
droning  a  song  to  cheer  what  seemed  the  monotony  of 
an  eternal  employment.  Notwithstanding  the  inexplicable 
mystery  about  the  man,  he  was,  on  the  whole,  a  favourite 
with  his  fellow-townsmen.     There  was  something  so  meek 


THE    TAPESTRY    WEAVER        51 

in  his  demeanour,  so  placid,  so  unassuming,  and  his  speech 
was  so  soft  and  gentle,  that  although  his  name  had  been 
mingled  in  strange  recitals,  he  had  never  been  molested, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  was  generally  considered  a  harmless, 
well-meaning  creature  ;  one  who,  far  from  sneering  at  the 
pleasures  of  youth,  looked  upon  them  with  seeming  satis- 
faction. No  one  more  frequently  witnessed  the  bacchanal 
revelries  of  the  topers  of  Beauvais  ;  for,  though  Schatten 
was  no  drinker  himself,  he  beheld  with  unaffected  pleasure 
the  loose  jollity  of  others.  The  like  at  feasts  :  although 
he  was  temperate  as  a  chameleon,  he  would  most  readily 
carve  huge  collops  for  others.  He  seemed  to  hold  in 
peculiar  admiration  a  purple,  bloated  face  and  swagging 
paunch,  though  his  own  sharp  visage  was  as  yellow  as 
saffron,  and  his  figure  lank  as  a  thread-paper.  This  ur- 
banity towards  the  failings  of  others  was,  it  will  be  conceded, 
the  secret  of  his  popularity.  Though  he  himself  abstained 
from  all  animal  indulgence,  he  not  only  did  not  gloomily 
lecture  on  the  lawlessness  of  appetite,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
smiled  on  its  achievements.  This  charity  hath  served  many 
besides  old  Schatten. 

But  there  was  another  circumstance  that  greatly  assisted 
the  goodly  reputation  of  the  weaver  :  it  was  the  character 
of  his  many  visitors  and  pupils.  His  hovel  was  the  resort 
of  the  loveliest  girls — the  most  beautiful  youths,  not  only  of 
the  town  of  Beauvais,  but  from  the  great  city  itself — from 
elegant,  voluptuous  Paris  ;  for  even  at  the  period  of  which 
we  write  it  was  distinguished  for  the  refinement  and  luxuries 
of  life. 

Schatten,  in  his  capacity  of  tapestry  weaver,  had  pictures 
of  every  variety  of  subject  ;  and  it  was  his  good  fortune  that 
those  professors  who  excelled  in  the  beautiful  art  seemed 
by  common  consent  to  seek  old  Schatten,  that  he  might 
immortalise  their  radiant  sketches  in  his  still  more  exquisite 
tapestry.     There    was    no   subject    which    painting    could 


52        THE    TAPESTRY    WEAVER 

portray,  no  imagination  which  it  could  robe  in  life  and 
colour,  that  was  not  ready  for  the  loom  of  Schatten.  If  a 
battle  were  the  theme,  there  might  be  seen  contending 
heroes,  with  stern  rapture  in  their  faces,  glory  about  their 
heads — their  every  limb  glowing  as  with  Mars'  own  fire — 
their  swords  like  sunbeams,  and  the  smoking  blood  more 
like  libations  to  purple  Liber,  than  torrents  in  which  the 
human  life  gushed  forth.  Thus  a  battle  woven  by  old 
Schatten  was  a  grand  and  glorious  thing — each  combatant 
was  an  excited  god  ;  whilst  the  drained  and  pallid  carcass 
— the  dreadful  wounds,  with  jagged  and  gaping  mouths — 
the  rigid  muscle  straining  against  death — the  fixed  and 
stone-like  eye,  and  clotted  hair — all  the  gross,  substantial 
horrors  of  systematic  slaughter,  were  thrown  into  the  shade  : 
they  were  not  to  expose  that  common  liar — Glory.  If  the 
subject  were  beauty,  there  might  be  seen — as  erst  was  chosen 
by  the  antique  master — one  charm  from  twenty  different 
faces,  making  a  miracle  of  perfection.  All  that  was  volup- 
tuous and  entrancing  shone  in  the  dewy  light  of  woman's 
eye  ;  there  was  an  eternal  youth  in  her  red  lip,  a  tenderness 
in  her  warm  cheek  :  too  pure  for  the  earth,  too  exquisitely 
fragile,  she  seemed  of  a  sisterhood  'twixt  humanity  and 
angels.  The  same  masterly  hand  was  displayed  though 
the  subject  was  the  banquet  of  the  glutton — the  supper 
was  still  spread  "in  the  Apollo."  The  same  power  shown 
in  the  golden  heaps  of  the  miser :  the  food,  the  wine, 
seemed  ambrosia  and  nectar,  bestowing  immortality  on 
the  lip  that  tasted  :  the  gold  glittered  like  something 
dropped  from  the  skies,  to  be  worn  as  amulets  against 
calamity. 

A  man  so  potent  in  his  handicraft  as  Schatten  might  have 
surrounded  himself  with  all  the  symbols  of  wealth  ;  and, 
had  he  been  ambitious,  have  successfully  contended  for  the 
highest  honours  of  citizenship.  But,  it  was  plain,  he  valued 
gold  as  ashes ;  and  for  the  trappings  of  state  and  place,  the 


OF    BEAUVAIS  53 

most  regal  shows,  the  pomp  and  blazonry  of  kings,  were 
with  him  matter  for  a  jest. 

"  Alack !  "  cried  Michel  Sous,  a  withered  money-scrivener 
of  Beauvais — "  I  hear  't  was  a  brave  sight ;  and  plague  on 
my  shanks !  I  have  missed  it.  Which  way  went  the 
procession  ? "  The  man  of  bonds  and  pieces  remained 
gaping  for  the  answer  of  the  tapestry  weaver,  who  stood, 
cross-legged,  leaning  on  his  staff,  with  a  face  immovable  as 
granite.  It  was  a  day  of  triumph,  a  time  of  holiday,  and 
Michel  had  for  once  quitted  his  bags  and  desk  to  sun 
himself  in  the  glory  of  his  fellow-townsmen.  "Weaver,  I 
say,  which  way  went  the  procession,  and  where  shall  I 
find  it?" 

"  It  went,  after  some  turnings,  into  the  churchyard. 
Take  up  a  handful  of  mould,  and,  in  truth,  you  clutch  a 
part  of  what  you  seek." 

"  Why,  thou  art  drunk,  merry,  or  mad !  The  church- 
yard and  mould !  I  ask  you  where  went,  where  is,  the 
procession  ?  " 

"  Where  I  tell  you.  I  saw  it  pass  by  me,  and  after  some 
windings  and  shiftings,  1  saw  each  brave  puppet — that 
strutted  as  though  the  angels  were  looking  at  it — I  saw  it 
shrink,  and  bend,  and  totter,  and  the  yellowness  of  age 
crept  over  it,  and  its  eye  faded,  and  its  hair  whitened,  and 
it  crawled  into  the  earth  as  the  fox  slinks  beneath  his  cover. 
The  trumpets  lay  dumb  and  cankering  in  the  soil — the 
rustling  flags  dropped  tinder  at  the  breeze — the  rust-eaten 
sword  crumbled  beneath  the  mattock  of  the  digger,  and 
rank  grass  grows  above  the  pomp  of  the  last  hour." 

"  Why,  Schatten,  thou  art  dreaming.  Blessed  St  Mary  ! 
thou  surely  didst  not  see  the  sight,  else  thou  hadst  told  me 
a  truer  story  of  its  progress." 

"  Not  so  :  trust  me,  I  saw  the  revel — but  I  beheld  it  from 
the  pinnacle  of  time ;  and  I  tell  you  again,  all  the  men  who 
passed  me  I  watched  into  the  churchyard.     Their  haughty 


54        THE    TAPESTRY    WEAVER 

eyes — their  trophies,  flags,  and  clamorous  pipes — I  say  to 
you,  they  are  dust !  The  shout  of  triumph  hath  died  in  the 
distance,  and  hie  jacet  is  now  the  only  tongue." 

"  So,  so — a  riddle,"  crowed  the  scrivener ;  and  he  hobbled 
on  to  seek  a  less  perplexing  respondent. 

Such  were,  at  times,  the  answers  of  old  Schatten,  who, 
when  he  pleased,  could  be  as  grave  and  oracular  as  a  father 
confessor.  Such  were  his  reflections  on  pageants  which,  to 
many  thoughtless  and  happy  minds,  were  the  symbols  of  all 
earthly  greatness.  It  was  his  pastime  to  analyse  appearance 
— to  unravel  the  glossy  web  of  policy — to  unfold  the  swath - 
ings  of  vain  pomp  and  ceremony,  and  point  to  the  foul 
mummy  they  encased.  Yet  would  he  vary  this  custom  with 
smiles  and  laughter,  and  witty  sayings,  which  gave  a  savour 
to  the  wine  they  honoured.  He  would,  with  his  thin  voice 
troll  a  song  in  praise  of  beauty,  and,  with  quick  conceits, 
prick  on  lusty  youth  to  deeds  of  jollity  and  wild  adventure ; 
nay,  he  would  often  mingle  in  the  revelry.  Many  a  time 
have  the  townsfolk  of  Beauvais  laughed  at  the  gambols  of 
old  Schatten,  who,  pranked  in  his  best,  would  trip  it  with 
some  blue-eyed  fair  one,  who,  seemingly  unconscious  of 
the  deformity  of  her  partner,  would  glide  through  the  dance 
all  smiles  and  sweetness,  as  though  mortal  youth  were 
wedded  to  immortality,  and  wrinkles  and  grey  hairs  were 
not  the  inheritance  of  the  children  of  earth.  Alas  !  but  a 
few  months,  or  weeks,  and  the  poor  maiden — she  who 
seemed  the  embodied  principle  of  beauty  and  motion — was 
as  the  "  clods  of  the  valley,"  a  mass  of  blank  insensibility. 

Various  were  the  ways  by  which  old  Schatten  had 
insinuated  himself  into  the  good  graces  of  the  people  of 
Beauvais.  To  please  them  he  would,  when  in  the  humour, 
act  twenty  different  parts — now  he  would  be  a  learned 
doctor,  and  now  a  mountebank  ;  at  times  he  would  utter 
the  wisdom  of  sages — at  times  play  a  hundred  antic  tricks, 
making  his  audience  shout  with  merriment.     For  one  long 


OF    BEAUVAIS  55 

winter  did  Schatten  profoundly  lecture  upon  laurels,  crowns, 
swords,  and  money-bags  ;  and,  like  a  skilful  chemist,  would 
he  analyse  their  component  parts. 

"This,"  cried  Schatten,  producing  a  semblance  of  the 
wreath,  "  this  is  the  laurel  crown  of  one  of  the  Caesars. 
How  fresh  and  green  the  leaves  remain  !  Ha  !  there  is  no 
such  preservative  as  innocent  blood — it  embalms  the  names 
of  mighty  potentates,  who  else  had  never  been  heard  of : 
steeped  in  it,  deformity  becomes  loveliness — fame  colours 
her  most  lasting  pictures  with  its  paint !  The  fields  that 
grew  this  branch  were  richly  manured :  tens  of  thousands 
of  hearts  lay  rotting  there  ;  the  light  of  thousands  of  eyes 
was  quenched ;  palaces  and  hovels,  in  undistinguished 
heaps,  were  strewn  about  the  soil ;  there  lay  the  hoary 
and  the  unborn ;  the  murdered  wife  and  the  outraged 
virgin — and  showers  of  tears  falling  on  this  garden  of  agony 
and  horror,  it  was  miraculously  fertile — for  low !  it  gave 
forth  this  one  branch,  to  deck  the  forehead  of  one  man  !  In 
the  veins  that  seam  its  leaves  are  the  heart  strings  of 
murdered  nations ;  it  is  the  plant  of  fire  and  blood,  reaped 
by  the  sword! — Such  is  the  conqueror's  laurel. 

"  And  here  is  the  despot's  diadem  ! — Many  a  time,  like 
glowing  iron,  hath  it  seared  the  brows  it  circled.  Of  what 
is  it  composed  ?  What  wonderful  ingredients  meet  in  this 
quintessence  of  worldly  wealth  ?  See,  the  passions  and  the 
feelings  that  helped  to  make  it  still  haunt  their  handiwork. 
Their  shadows  live  in  its  glittering  metal  and  its  flashing 
gems.  Full-blooded  power,  with  a  demon's  eye,  glares 
from  this  ruby — leprous  fear  trembles  in  these  pearls — in 
every  diamond,  care  or  compunction  weeps  a  tear  !  Through- 
out the  gold  I  see  a  thousand  forms,  dawning  and  fading 
like  hues  in  heated  steel : — there,  fancy  detects  the  assassin 
with  his  knife  ; — there,  the  bondsman  snaps  his  chain ; — 
there,  is  the  headsman  ; — there,  the  civil  war  !  These  are 
the  shades  that  haunt  the  despot's  crown  ;  that  wear  him 


56        THE    TAPESTRY    WEAVER 

waking,  and  screech  to  him  in  his  sleep.  A  nation's  groan 
is  pent  up  in  its  round.  It  is  a  living  thing  that  eats  into 
the  brain  of  the  possessor,  making  him  mad  and  drunk  for 
blood  and  power ! 

"  The  miser's  money-bag ! — Another  monster — all  throat. 
Could  its  owner  have  put  the  sun  itself  within  this  bag,  the 
world  for  him  had  been  in  darkness — perpetual  night  had 
cast  a  pall  upon  creation — the  fruits  of  earth  had  withered 
in  the  bud,  and  want  and  misery  been  universal ;  whilst  he, 
the  thrifty  villain  !  smugly  lived  in  bloom,  and  in  his  very 
baseness  found  felicity !  And  yet,  what  was  the  worth  of 
all  this  bag  contained  ?  Though  it  was  stuffed  with  wealth, 
it  was  hung  about  with  fears.  As  its  owner  slid  his  palm 
into  the  heap,  he  would  start  as  though  he  felt  the  hand  of 
death  were  hidden  there  to  grasp  him.  He  was  almost 
blind  within  a  world  of  beauty.  His  eye  saw  no  images 
save  those  painted  by  gold ;  his  ears  heard  not,  save  when 
the  metal  tinkled ;  his  tongue  was  dumb,  if  it  spoke  not  of 
wealth  ;  the  glittering  pieces  were  to  him  the  children  of  his 
heart  and  soul — dull  offspring  of  the  foulest  appetites  ;  yet 
he  hugged  them  to  his  bosom — he  hugged  them,  and  in  his 
dying  hour  they  turned  to  snakes,  and  stung  him  in  the 
embrace !  This  is  the  miser's  money-bag — -the  abode  of 
reptiles,  the  sepulchre  of  the  soul ! 

"The  sword! — Ceremony  sanctifies  it.  Some  kingly 
words  are  spoken — a  trumpet  is  blown  ;  straightway  the 
sword  is  ennobled  ! 

"  The  lawyer's  gown! — the  masquerading  dress  of  common 
sense.  There  is  a  living  instinct  in  its  web:  let  golden 
villainy  come  under  it,  and  with  a  thought  it  flows  and 
spreads,  and  gives  an  ample  shelter  to  the  thing  it  covers  ; 
let  poor  knavery  seek  it,  and  it  shrinks  and  curtains  up, 
and  leaves  the  trembling  victim  naked  to  the  court !  " 

Thus,  in  his  graver  moments,  would  old  Schatten  preach 
to  his  hearers ;  then,  with  a  thought,  he  would  break  from 


OF     BEAUVAIS 


57 


the  solemn  discourse,  and  make  merriment  with  the  self- 
same objects.  Thus,  like  a  skilful  juggler,  he  would  hold 
the  conqueror's  laurel,  that  hardy  plant,  to  his  lips,  and 
with  a  puff  blow  it  into  dust ;  he  would  change  the  tiara 
into  a  huge  snake,  monstrous  and  ugly,  and  make  the 
beholders  start  at  its  contortions.  The  long  purse  he 
would  ravel  into  a  shroud  ;  he  would  melt  the  sword  into 
drops  of  blood,  and  turn  the  lawyer's  gown  into  a  net  of 
steel.  Whilst  these  tricks  made  him  a  favourite  with  the 
young  and  gay,  his  learning,  and  the  thousand  stories  he 
had  of  men  of  all  ages  and  of  all  ranks,  rendered  him  an 
oracle  of  wisdom  to  the  studious.  It  was  observed  that 
Schatten,  whilst  narrating  any  history,  always  spoke  as 
though  he  had  been  an  eye-witness  of  the  circumstance 
he  detailed ;  nay,  as  though  he  had  known  their  most 
secret  thoughts. 

And  who  is  Schatten,  whose  history  is  yet  unfinished  ? 
Who  is  this  mysterious  Weaver,  whose  deeds,  if  chronicled, 
would  fill  thousands  of  folios  ?  He  is  everywhere  about  us  : 
in  the  solitude  of  our  chamber,  in  the  press  and  throng  of 
the  street,  in  the  wilderness  and  in  the  city. 

— "  My  days  are  swifter  than  a  weaver's  shuttle." 


THE  WINE    CELLAR 

n  "morality" 

Stephen  Curlew  was  a  thrifty  goldsmith  in  the  reign  of 
the  Second  Charles.  His  shop  was  a  mine  of  metal :  he 
worked  for  the  Court,  although,  we  fear,  his  name  is  not  to 
be  found  in  any  record  in  the  State-Paper  Office.  Stephen 
was  a  bachelor,  and,  what  is  strange,  he  never  felt — that  is, 
he  never  complained  of — his  loneliness.  His  chased  ewers, 
his  embossed  goblets,  his  gold  in  bars,  were  to  him  wife  and 
children.  Midas  was  his  only  kinsman.  He  would  creep 
among  his  treasures,  like  an  old  grey  rat,  and  rub  his  hands, 
and  smile,  as  if  communing  with  the  wealth  about  him. 
He  had  so  long  hugged  gold  to  his  heart  that  it  beat  for 
nothing  else.  Stephen  was  a  practical  philosopher  ;  for  he 
would  meekly  take  the  order — nay,  consult  the  caprice — of 
the  veriest  popinjay  with  the  humility  of  a  pauper,  when,  at 
a  word,  he  might  have  out-blazoned  lords  and  earls.  If  this 
be  not  real  philosophy,  thought  Stephen,  as  he  walked 
slipshod  at  the  heels  of  his  customers,  what  is  ? 

Stephen  was  a  man  of  temperance  ;  he  was  content  to  see 
venison  carved  on  his  hunting-cups  ;  he  cared  not  to  have 
it  in  his  larder.      His  eyes  would  melt  at  clustering  grapes 
58 


THE    WINE    CELLAR  59 

chased  on  banquet  goblets,  but  no  drop  of  the  living  juice 
passed  the  goldsmith's  lips.  Stephen  only  gave  audience  to 
Bacchus  when  introduced  by  Plutus.  Such  was  the  frugality 
of  Stephen  to  his  sixty-fifth  year  ;  and  then,  or  his  name 
had  not  been  eternised  in  this  our  page,  temptation  fell 
upon  him. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  on  a  raw  spring  evening,  and  Stephen 
sat  alone  in  his  back-room.  There  was  no  more  fire  upon 
the  hearth  than  might  have  lain  in  a  tinder-box,  but  Stephen 
held  his  parchment  hands  above  it,  and  would  not  be  cold. 
A  small  silver  lamp,  with  a  short  wick — for  the  keen 
observation  of  Stephen  had  taught  him  the  scientific  truth, 
that  the  less  the  wick,  the  less  the  waste  of  oil — glowed,  a 
yellow  speck  in  the  darkness.  On  the  table  lay  a  book, 
a  treatise  on  precious  stones ;  and  on  Stephen's  knee, 
Hermes,  the  True  Philosopher.  Stephen  was  startled  from 
a  waking  dream  by  a  loud  and  hasty  knocking  at  the  door. 
Mike,  the  boy,  was  out ;  but  it  could  not  be  he.  Stephen 
took  up  the  lamp,  and  was  creeping  to  the  door,  when  his 
eye  caught  the  silver,  and  he  again  placed  it  upon  the  table, 
and  felt  his  way  through  the  shop.  Unbolting  the  five 
bolts  of  the  door,  but  keeping  fast  the  chain,  Stephen 
demanded  "  who  was  there  ?  " 

"  I  bear  a  commission  from  Sir  William  Brouncker,  and 
I'm  in  haste." 

"  Stay  you  a  minute — but  a  minute,"  and  Stephen  hurried 
back  for  the  lamp,  then  hastily  returned,  opened  the  door, 
and  the  visitor  passed  the  threshold. 

"'Tis  not  Charles!"  cried  Stephen,  alarmed  at  his 
mistake,  for  he  believed  he  had  heard  the  voice  of  Sir 
William's  man. 

"  No  matter  for  that,  Stephen ;  you  work  for  men,  and 
not  for  Christian  names.  Come,  I  have  a  job  for  you  "  ;  and 
the  visitor,  with  the  easy,  assured  air  of  a  gallant,  lounged 
into  the  back-parlour,  followed  by  the  tremulous  Stephen, 


60  THE    WINE    CELLAR: 

"  Sir  William "  began  the  goldsmith. 

"  He  bade  me  use  his  name  ;  the  work  I'd  have  you  do 
is  for  myself.  Fear  not :  here's  money  in  advance,"  and 
the  stranger  plucked  from  his  pocket  a  purse,  which  in  its 
ample  length  lay  like  a  bloated  snake  upon  the  table. 

Stephen  smiled,  and  said,  "  Your  business,  sir  ?  " 

"  See  here,"  and  the  stranger  moved  the  lamp  immediately 
between  them,  when,  for  the  first  time,  Stephen  clearly  saw 
the  countenance  of  his  customer.  His  face  was  red  as 
brick,  and  his  eyes  looked  deep  as  the  sea,  and  glowed 
with  good  humour.  His  mouth  was  large  and  frank,  and 
his  voice  came  as  from  the  well  of  truth.  His  hair  fell  in 
curls  behind  his  ears,  and  his  moustache,  black  as  coal, 
made  a  perfect  crescent  on  his  lip,  the  points  upwards. 
Other  men  may  be  merely  good  fellows,  the  stranger 
seemed  the  best.  "  See  here,"  he  repeated,  and  produced 
a  drawing  on  a  small  piece  of  paper,  "  can  you  cut  me  this 
in  a  seal  ring  ?  " 

"Humph!  "  and  Stephen  put  on  his  spectacles;  "the 
subject  is " 

"  Bacchus  squeezing  grape-juice  into  the  cup  of  Death," 
said  the  stranger. 

"  An  odd  conceit,"  cried  the  goldsmith. 

M  We  all  have  our  whims,  or  woe  to  the  sellers,"  said  the 
customer.      "  Well,  can  it  be  done  ?  " 

"  Surely,  sir,  surely.      On  what  shall  it  be  cut  ?  " 

"An  emerald,  nothing  less.  It  is  the  drinker's  stone. 
In  a  week,  Master  Curlew  ?  " 

"  This  day  week,  sir,  if  I  live  in  health." 

The  day  came.  Stephen  was  a  tradesman  of  his  word, 
and  the  stranger  sat  in  the  back-parlour,  looking  curiously 
into  the  ring. 

"  Per  Bacco  /  Rarely  done.  Why,  Master  Curlew,  thou 
hast  caught  the  very  chops  of  glorious  Liber,  his  swimming 
eyes,  and  blessed  mouth.     Ha!    ha!    thou  hast  put  thy 


A    "MORALITY"  61 

heart  into  the  work,  Master  Curlew ;  and  how  cunningly 
hast  thou  all  but  hid  the  dart  of  death  behind  the  thyrsus 
of  the  god  !  How  his  life-giving  hand  clutches  the  pulpy 
cluster,  and  with  what  a  gush  comes  down  the  purple  rain, 
plashing  into  rubies  in  the  cup  of  Mors  !  " 

"  It  was  my  wish  to  satisfy,  most  noble  sir,"  said 
Stephen,  meekly,  somewhat  confounded  by  the  loud  praises 
of  the  speaker. 

"  May  you  never  be  choked  with  a  grape-stone,  Master 
Curlew,  for  this  goodly  work.  Ha !  "  and  the  speaker 
looked  archly  at  the  withered  goldsmith  ;  "  it  hath  cost  thee 
many  a  headache  ere  thou  couldst  do  this." 

"  If  I  may  say  it,  I  have  laboured  hard  at  the  craft — 
have  been  a  thrifty,  sober  man,"  said  Stephen. 

"  Sober  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  "  shouted  the  speaker,  and 
his  face  glowed  redder,  and  his  eyes  melted ;  "  sober ! 
why,  thou  wast  begot  in  a  wine  cask,  and  suckled  by  a 
bottle,  or  thou  hadst  never  done  this.  By  the  thigh  of 
Jupiter !  he  who  touched  this,"  and  the  stranger  held 
up  the  ring  to  his  eye,  and  laughed  again,  "  he  who  touched 
this  hath  never  known  water.  Tut !  man,  were  I  to  pink 
thee  with  a  sword  thou'dst  bleed  wine  !  " 

"  I,"  cried  Stephen,  "  I  bleed,"  and  he  glanced  fearfully 
towards  the  door,  and  then  at  the  stranger,  who  continued 
to  look  at  the  ring. 

"  The  skin  of  the  sorriest  goat  shall  sometimes  hold  the 
choicest  liquor,"  said  the  stranger,  looking  into  the  dry 
face  of  the  goldsmith.  "  Come,  confess,  art  thou  not  a 
sly  roysterer  ?  Or  art  thou  a  hermit  over  thy  drops,  and 
dost  count  flasks  alone  ?  Ay  !  ay !  well,  to  thy  cellar, 
man  ;  and — yes — thine  arms  are  long  enough — bring  up 
ten  bottles  of  thy  choicest  Malaga." 

"  I ! — my  cellar  ! — Malaga  !  "  stammered  Stephen. 

M  Surely  thou  hast  a  cellar  ? "  and  the  stranger  put  his 
hat  upon  the  table  with  the  air  of  a  man  set  in  for  a  carouse. 


62  THE    WINE    CELLAR: 

"  For  forty  years,  but  it  hath  never  known  wine,"  cried 
the  goldsmith.  "  I — I  have  never  known  wine."  The 
stranger  said  nothing  ;  but,  turning  full  upon  Stephen,  and, 
placing  his  hands  upon  his  knees,  he  blew  out  his  flushing 
cheeks  like  a  bagpipe,  and  sat  with  his  eyes  blazing  upon 
the  heretic.  "  No,  never  !  "  gasped  Stephen,  terrified,  for 
a  sense  of  his  wickedness  began  to  possess  him. 

"And  thou  dost  repent?"  asked  the  stranger,  with  a 
touch  of  mercy  towards  the  sinner. 

"  I — humph  !  I'm  a  poor  man,"  cried  Curlew  ;  "  yes, 
though  I'm  a  goldsmith,  and  seem  rich,  I — I'm  poor! 
poor !  " 

"Well,  'tis  lucky  I  come  provided,"  and  the  stranger 
placed  upon  the  table  a  couple  of  flasks.  Whether  he  took 
them  from  under  his  cloak,  or  evoked  them  through  the 
floor,  Stephen  knew  not ;  but  he  started  at  them  as  they  stood 
rebukingly  upon  his  table,  as  if  they  had  been  two  sheeted 
ghosts.     "Come,  glasses,"  cried  the  giver  of  the  wine. 

"Glasses!  "  echoed  Stephen,  "in  my  house!  " 

"  Right,  glasses !  No — cups,  and  let  them  be  gold 
ones  !  "  and  the  bacchanal,  for  it  was  plain  he  was  such,  waved 
his  arm  with  an  authority  which  Stephen  attempted  not  to 
dispute,  but  rose  and  hobbled  into  the  shop,  and  returned 
with  two  cups  just  as  the  first  cork  was  drawn.  "  Come, 
there's  sunlight  in  that,  eh  ?  "  cried  the  stranger,  as  he 
poured  the  wine  into  the  vessels.  "  So,  thou  hast  never 
drunk  wine  ?  Well,  here's  to  the  baptism  of  thy  heart !  " 
And  the  stranger  emptied  the  cup,  and  his  lips  smacked 
like  a  whip. 

And  Stephen  Curlew  tasted  the  wine,  and  looked  around, 
below,  above ;  and  the  oaken  wainscot  did  not  split  in 
twain,  nor  did  the  floor  yawn,  nor  the  ceiling  gape. 
Stephen  tasted  a  second  time;  thrice  did  he  drink,  and  he 
licked  his  mouth  as  a  cat  licks  the  cream  from  her  whiskers, 
and,  putting  his  left  hand  upon  his  belly,  softly  sighed. 


A    «  M  O  R  A  L  I T  Y  "  63 

"  Ha !  ha !  another  cup !  I  know  thou  wilt,"  and 
Stephen  took  another,  and  another  ;  and  the  two  flasks 
were  in  brief  time  emptied.  They  were,  however,  speedily 
followed  by  two  more,  placed  by  the  stranger  on  the  table, 
Stephen  opening  his  eyes  and  mouth  at  their  mysterious 
appearance.  The  contents  of  these  were  duly  swallowed, 
and  lo !  another  two  stood  before  the  goldsmith,  or,  as  he 
then  thought,  four. 

"There  never  was  such  a  Bacchus!  "  cried  Stephen's 
customer,  eyeing  the  ring.  «'  Why,  a  man  may  see  his 
stomach  fairly  heave,  and  his  cheek  ripen  with  wine :  yet, 
till  this  night,  thou  hadst  never  tasted  the  juice  !  What — 
what  could  have  taught  thee  to  carve  the  god  so  capitally  ?  " 

"  Instinct — instinct,"  called  out  the  goldsmith,  his  lips 
turned  to  clay  by  too  much  wine. 

«'  And  yet,"  said  the  stranger,  "  I  care  not  so  much 
for How  old  art  thou,  Stephen  ? " 

"  Sixty-five,"  and  Stephen  hiccupped. 

"  I  care  not  so  much  for  thy  Death,  Stephen  ;  instinct 
should  have  made  thee  a  better  hand  at  Death." 

"  'Tis  a  good  Death,"  cried  the  goldsmith,  with  unusual 
boldness,  "a  most  sweet  Death." 

"'Tis  too  broad — the  skeleton  of  an  alderman  with  the 
flesh  dried  upon  him.  He  hath  not  the  true  desolation, 
the  ghastly  nothingness,  of  the  big  bugbear.  No  matter  ; 
I'm  content ;  but  this  I'll  say,  though  thou  hast  shown 
thyself  a  professor  at  Bacchus,  thou  art  yet  but  a  poor 
apprentice  at  Death." 

Stephen  Curlew  answered  not  with  words,  but  he  snored 
very  audibly.  How  long  he  slept  he  could  not  well  discover, 
but  when  he  awoke  he  found  himself  alone  ;  no,  not  alone, 
there  stood  upon  the  table  an  unopened  flask  of  wine.  In 
a  moment  the  mystery  broke  upon  him — and  he  sprang  to 
his  feet  with  a  shriek,  and  rushed  into  the  shop.  No — he 
had  not  been  drugged  by  thieves — all  was  as  it  should  be. 


64  THE    WINE    CELLAR: 

The  stranger,  like  an  honest  and  courteous  man,  had  taken 
but  his  own ;  and,  without  disturbing  the  sleeper,  had 
quitted  the  house.  And  Stephen  Curlew,  the  wine  glowing 
in  his  heart — yea,  down  to  his  very  nails,  stood  and  smiled 
at  the  unopened  flask  before  him. 

Stephen  continued  to  eye  the  flask  ;  and  though  its  donor 
had  shared  with  him  he  knew  not  how  many  bottles, 
Stephen  was  resolved  that  not  one  drop  of  the  luscious 
juice  before  him  should  wet  an  alien  throat.  But  how — 
where  to  secure  it  ?  For,  in  the  new  passion  which  seized 
upon  the  goldsmith,  the  one  flask  seemed  to  him  more 
precious  than  the  costly  treasure  in  his  shop — a  thing  to  be 
guarded  with  more  scrupulous  affection — more  jealous  love. 
In  what  nook  of  his  house  to  hide  the  glorious  wealth — 
what  corner,  where  it  might  escape  the  profane  glances  and 
itching  fingers  of  his  workmen  ?  The  thought  fell  in  a 
golden  flash  upon  him — the  cellar — ay,  the  cellar  !  Who 
of  his  household  ever  thought  of  approaching  the  cellar  ? 
Stephen  seized  the  flask  and  lamp,  and  paused.  The 
cellar  had  no  lock  !  No  matter  ;  he  had  a  bag  6f  three-inch 
nails  and  a  stout  hammer. 

The  next  morning  neighbours  met  at  the  closed  door  and 
windows  of  the  goldsmith,  and  knocked  and  shouted, 
shouted  and  knocked.  They  were,  however,  reduced  to  a 
crowbar,  and,  at  length,  burst  into  the  house.  Every  place 
was  searched,  but  there  was  nowhere  visible  old  Stephen 
Curlew.  Days  passed  on,  and  strange  stories  filled  the  ears 
of  men.  One  neighbour  vowed  that  he  had  had  a  dream 
or  a  vision,  he  knew  not  which,  wherein  he  saw  the  gold- 
smith whirled  down  the  Strand  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  a  lion 
and  a  tiger,  and  driven  by  a  half-naked  young  man,  wearing 
a  panther  skin,  and  on  his  head  vine-leaves  and  ivy.  An 
old  woman  swore  that  she  had  seen  Stephen  carried  away 
by  a  dozen  devils  (very  much  in  liquor),  with  red  faces  and 


THE    WINE    CELLAR  65 

goat  legs.  However,  in  less  than  a  month,  the  goldsmith's 
nephew,  a  scrivener's  clerk,  took  possession  of  Curlew's 
wealth,  and  became  a  new-made  butterfly  with  golden 
wings.  As  for  Stephen,  after  various  speculations,  it  was 
concluded,  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties,  that  he  must 
have  been  carried  away  by  Satan  himself,  and  the  nephew 
cared  not  to  combat  popular  opinions.  But  such,  in  truth, 
was  not  the  end  of  the  goldsmith.      Hear  it. 

Stephen,  possessed  by  the  thought  of  the  cellar,  with  the 
one  flask,  a  lamp,  nails,  and  hammer,  proceeded  to  the 
sacred  crypt.  He  arrived  in  the  vault,  and  having  kissed 
the  flask,  reverently  put  it  down,  and  straightway  addressed 
himself  to  the  work.  Closing  the  door,  he  drove  the  first 
nail,  the  second,  third ;  and  borrowing  new  strength  from 
the  greatness  of  his  purpose,  he  struck  each  nail  upon  the 
head  with  the  force  and  precision  of  a  Cyclops,  burying  it 
deep  in  the  oak.  With  this  new-found  might  he  drove 
eleven  nails ;  the  twelfth  was  between  his  thumb  and 
finger,  when  looking  round — oh  !  sad  mishap,  heavy  mis- 
chance !  awful  error  ! — he  had  driven  the  nails  from  the 
wrong  side !  In  a  word — and  we  tremble  while  we  write 
it — he  had  nailed  himself  in !  There  he  stood,  and  there 
stood  the  flask.  He  gasped  with  horror  ;  his  foot  stumbled, 
struck  the  lamp,  it  fell  over,  and  the  light  went  out. 

Shall  we  write  further  on  the  agony  of  Stephen  Curlew  ? 
Shall  we  describe  how  he  clawed  and  struck  at  the  door, 
now  in  the  hope  to  wrench  a  nail,  and  now  to  alarm  the 
breathing  men  above  ?  No  ;  we  will  not  dwell  upon  the 
horror  ;  it  is  enough  that  the  fate  of  the  goldsmith  was 
dimly  shadowed  forth  in  the  following  paragraph  of  last 
Saturday : — 

"  Some  labourers,  digging  a  foundation  near  " — no,  we 
will  not  name  the  place,  for  the  family  of  the  Curlews  is  not 
yet  extinct,  and  there  may  be  descendants  in  the  neighbour- 


66 


THE    WINE    CELLAR 


hood — "  near ,  found  a  skeleton.    A  hammer  was  beside 

it,  with  several  long  nails  :  a  small  wine  flask  was  also  found 
near  the  remains,  which,  it  is  considered,  could  not  have 
been  in  the  vault  in  which  they  were  discovered  less  than  a 
century  and  three-quarters  !  " 

Oh,  ye  heads  of  families  !  and  oh,  ye  thrifty,  middle-aged 
bachelors,  boarding  with  families,  or  growing  mouldy  by 
yourselves,  never,  while  ye  live,  forget  the  terrible  end  of 
Stephen  Curlew.  And  oh,  ye  heads  of 'families — and  oh, 
ye  aforesaid  bachelors,  albeit  ye  have  only  one  bottle  left, 
never,  never  nail  up  the  wine  cellar  ! 


RECOLLECXIONS  OF   GUY  FAWKES 

»  When  a  man  has  once  been  very  famous  for  jests  and  merry 
adventures,  he  is  made  to  adopt  all  the  jests  that  want  a  father, 
and  many  times  such  as  are  unworthy  of  him." — Motteux's  Life 
of  Rabelais. 

At  midnight,  on  the  fifth  of  November,  in  the  year  of  grace 
one  thousand  six  hundred  and  five,  Guido  Fawkes,  "  gentle- 
man," was  discovered,  "  booted  and  spurred,"  in  the  vicinity 
of  St  Stephen's  Chapel,  having  on  his  person  "  three  matches, 
a  tinder-box,  and  a  dark  lantern  "  ;  and  purposing  by  means 
of  gunpowder  to  blow  up,  says  King  James,  "the  whole 
nobility,  the  most  part  of  the  knights  and  gentry,  besides  the 
whole  judges  of  the  land,  with  most  of  the  lawyers  and  the 
whole  clerks !  "  For  the  one  indiscretion  Guido  Fawkes 
forfeited  his  gentility,  and  became  a  proverb  of  wickedness. 
In  boyhood  we  looked  upon  Guido  Fawkes,  gentleman,  as 
one  little  lower  than  the  devil ;  he  had  four  horns,  and  a 
dozen  tails.  "  Years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind  "  have 
divested  him  of  these  excrescences  and  appendages,  and 
Guido  Fawkes  now  appears  to  matured  charities  merely  a 
person  of  a  singularly  eccentric  disposition. 

Some  five  and  twenty   years  ago    it  was  the   patriotic 

67 


68  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

custom  of  the  authorities  of  an  Isle  of  Sheppy  dockyard 
to  bestow  upon  their  apprentices  a  few  waggon-loads  of 
resinous  timber,  that  a  bonfire  worthy  of  the  cause  it 
celebrated  might  be  kindled  from  the  public  purse — 
that  the  effigy  of  the  arch-fiend  Guy  might  be  consumed 
in  a  fire  three  times  hotter  than  the  fire  of  a  furnace.  Such 
fierce  liberality  was  not  lost  upon  the  townspeople ;  their 
ardour  in  the  burning  business  smouldered  not ;  every  man 
subscribed  his  plank  or  log  ;  and,  from  the  commissioner 
in  his  uniform,  to  Bobby  in  his  pinafore,  the  fifth  of 
November  glowed,  in  the  calendar  of  their  minds,  a  pillar 
of  fire.  For  a  month  before  that  day,  the  coming  anni- 
versary busied  the  thoughts  of  boyish  executioners,  resolved 
to  show  their  patriotism  in  the  appointments  of  the  Guy — 
in  the  grotesque  iniquity  of  his  face — in  the  cumbrous  state 
of  his  huge  arm-chair.  To  beg  clothes  from  door  to  door 
was  the  business  of  every  lover  of  Church  and  State.  To 
ask  for  a  coat — a  pair  of  breeches — a  shirt  (the  frill  could 
be  made  of  paper) — hose  and  hat,  was  not  mendicity,  but 
the  fulfilment  of  a  high  social  duty. 

Guy  Fawkes  would  at  length  be  dressed.  A  philosopher 
might  have  found  good  matter  in  his  eleemosynary  suit.  In 
the  coat  of  the  blood-thirsty  wretch  he  might  have  recog- 
nised the  habit  of  Scum,  the  slop-seller,  a  quiet  trader  afloat 
of  twenty  thousand  pounds — in  the  vest  of  the  villainous 
ruffian  the  discarded  waistcoat  of  Smallgrog,  the  honest 
landlord  of  a  little  house  for  sailors — in  the  stockings  of 
the  atrocious  miscreant  the  hose  of  the  equitable  Weevil, 
biscuit- contractor  to  his  Majesty's  fleet — whilst  for  the 
leather  of  the  fiend-like  effigy,  Guy  Fawkes  was  to  be 
exhibited,  and  afterwards  burnt  in,  the  broad-toed  shoes  of 
that  best  of  men,  Trap,  the  town  attorney. 

The  chair,  too,  in  which  Guy  Fawkes  sat,  might  it  not 
have  some  day  enshrined  a  justice  of  the  peace  ?  and  the 
lantern    fixed    in    the    hand   of  the   diabolical,   lynx-eyed 


GUYFAWKES  69 

monster,  might  it  not  have  been  the  property  of  the  most 
amiable  and  most  somnolent  of  all  the  Blue  Town  watch- 
men ?  A  mask  was  fixed  upon  the  effigy,  or  the  lump  of 
clay  kneaded  into  human  features,  and  horribly  or  delicately 
expressed,  according  to  the  benevolent  art  of  the  makers ! 
— might  not  the  same  visor  have  been  worn  by  a  perfect 
gentleman,  with  considerable  advantage,  at  a  masquerade  ? 
— might  not  the  clay  nose  and  mouth  of  the  loathsome 
traitor  have  borne  an  accidental  likeness  to  the  very  pink 
of  patriots  ?  Let  philosophy  ponder  well  on  Guy  Fawkes. 
We  will  now  attempt  our  childish  recollections  of  the 
great  Guy.  We  have  waked  at  midnight,  perhaps  dream- 
ing of  the  bonfire  about  to  blaze,  and  thinking  we  heard  the 
distant  chorus  sounding  to  the  advent  of  the  Mighty  Terror. 
No,  it  was  the  sea  booming  across  the  marsh,  the  wind 
rising  or  falling.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  to 
sleep  and  dream  of  unextinguishable  squibs  and  crackers. 
At  length  four  o'clock  arrives ;  the  cocks  crow — the  boys 
can't  be  long  now.  There — hark! — how  the  chant  comes 
up  the  street,  like  one  voice — the  voice  of  a  solitary  droning 
witch !  We  lie  breathless,  and  shape  to  ourselves  Guy 
Fawkes  in  the  dark  !  Our  hearts  beat  quicker  and  quicker 
as  the  chant  becomes  louder ;  and  we  sit  up  in  bed,  as  the 
boys  approach  the  door,  and,  oh  !  how  we  wish  to  be  with 
them  !      There — there  they  are  in  full  chorus  !      Hark  : — 

"  The  fifth  of  November,  as  I  can  remember, 
Is  gunpowder  treason  and  plot, 
I  know  no  reason,  why  gunpowder  treason 
Should  ever  be  forgot." 

We  feel  an  unutterable  pang,  for  loudest  among  the  loud, 
we  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Jack  Tarleton.  "  Ha  !"  we 
sigh,  "hi*  mother  lets  him  out."  The  bitterness  passes 
away  with  the — 

"  Hallo,  boys!  Hallo,  boys  !  make  a  round  ring, 
Hallo,  boys!   Hallo,  boys  !  God  save  the  king  !  " 


70 


RECOLLECTIONS    OF 


And  now  the  procession  moves  on,  and  the  voices  die  in 
the  distance,  and  we  feel  we  are  left  alone ;  and,  in  a  few 
minutes,  we  hear  new  revellers,  rejoicing  in  the  captivity  of 
a  suit  of  clothes  stuffed  with  hay,  and  called  Guy  Fawkes. 
Guy  Fawkes  !  Guy  Fawkes  !  who — what  is  Guy  Fawkes? 
We  had  been  told  that  he  had  been  caught  with  a  lantern, 
tinder-box  and  matches,  ready  to  blow  up  thousands  of 
barrels  of  gunpowder,  and  so  to  destroy  the  king,  bishops, 
and  members  of  Parliament.  It  must  be  shocking — very 
shocking  ;  still,  we  could  not  perfectly  envisage  the  atrocity 
— we  could  not  make  out  the  full  horror.  We  had  the 
undefined  sense  of  the  greatness  of  a  king,  though  we 
hardly  dared  to  hope  we  should  ever  see  one.  We  had 
a  less  remote  notion  of  the  nature  of  a  bishop,  having  been 
helped  somewhat  in  our  speculations  by  the  person  of  the 
curate  at  the  garrison  church.  "  Curates  may  come  to  be 
bishops,  only  bishops  are  very  much  greater  ;  and  curates 
have  nothing  upon  their  heads,  whereas  certain  bishops  might 
wear  mitres."  On  learning  this  we  thought  that  bishops 
were  merely  full-grown  curates  ;  in  the  same  way  that  we 


GUY    FAWKES  71 

had  seen  Poland  hens  with  their  topknots  of  feathers  only 
the  spring  before  bare-headed  little  chicks.  It  was  thus, 
in  the  irreverence  of  childhood,  we  disposed  of  the  whole 
bench  of  bishops.  But  now  came  we  to  the  difficulty — 
what,  what  could  be  a  member  of  Parliament  ?  Was  it 
a  living  thing?  If  so,  had  it  a  voice?  Could  it  speak? 
Could  it  sit  ?  Could  it  say  yes  and  no  ?  Could  it  walk  ? 
Could  it  turn  ?  Or  was  it  merely  an  image  ?  Was  it  pulled 
by  wires,  like  sister  Jenny's  doll  ?  We  had  been  told  that 
members  of  Parliament  made  laws.  What  were  laws  ? 
Were  they  the  lions  and  unicorns  on  the  king's  arms  ? 
Were  they  a  better  sort  of  cake,  too  dear  for  everybody  to  buy  ? 
Little  boys  ate  parliament-cakes — were  law-cakes  for  men  ? 
If  so,  were  they  gilt  or  plain  ? — with  comfits  or  without  ? 

It  is  no  matter,  we  thought,  being  unable  to  satisfy  our- 
selves :  it  is  no  matter.  Guy  Fawkes — that  shadowy, 
terrible  mystery — had  once  lived  and  tried  to  kill  the 
king,  the  full-grown  curates,  and  those  undivined  riddles — 
members  of  Parliament.  We  again  went  to  our  first 
question.  Who  was  Guy  Fawkes  ?  Did  he  have  a 
father  and  mother  ?  Was  Guy  Fawkes  ever  a  little  boy  ? 
and  did  he  fly  a  kite  and  play  at  marbles?  If  so,  how 
could  he  have  ever  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  trouble 
himself  with  other  matters  ?  There  was  something  terrify- 
ing in  the  idea  of  having  played  with  Guy  Fawkes.  We 
fancied  him  at  taw — we  saw  him  knuckle  down.  No — it 
could  not  be  ;  the  imagination  of  the  child  could  not  dwell 
upon  such  an  impossibility.  Guy  Fawkes  a  boy  ! — a  baby  ! 
now  shaking  a  rattle — now  murmuring  as  he  fed,  his 
mother  smiling  down  upon  him !  No,  no — it  was  im- 
possible ;  Guy  Fawkes  was  never  born — he  was  from  the 
first  a  man — he  never  could  have  been  a  baby.  He  seemed 
to  us  a  part  of  the  things  that  had  always  been,  and  always 
would  be — a  piece  of  grim  eternity;  a  principle  of  ever- 
lasting wickedness. 


72  RECOLLECTIONS    OF 

Is  it  in  childhood  alone — is  it  only  in  the  dim  imaginings 
of  infancy — in  the  wandering  guesses  of  babyhood,  that  we 
manifest  this  ignorance?  When  the  full-grown  thief  is 
hanged,  do  we  not  sometimes  forget  that  he  was  the  child 
of  misery  and  vice — born  for  the  gallows — nursed  for  the 
halter  ?  Did  we  legislate  a  little  more  for  the  cradle,  might 
we  not  be  spared  some  pains  for  the  hulks  ? 

And  then  we  had  been  told  that  Guy  Fawkes  came  from 
Spain.  Where  was  Spain  ?  Was  it  a  million  miles  away, 
and  what  distance  was  a  million  miles  ?  Were  there  little 
boys  in  Spain,  or  were  they  all  like  Guy  Fawkes  ?  How 
strange,  and  yet  how  delightful  to  us  did  it  seem  to  feel 
that  we  were  a  part  of  the  wonderful  things  about  us  !  To 
be  at  all  upon  this  world — to  be  one  at  the  great  shonv  of 
men  and  women — to  feel  that  when  we  grew  bigger  we 
should  know  everything  of  kings,  bishops,  members  of 
Parliament,  and  Guy  Fawkes !  What  a  golden  glory 
hung  about  the  undiscovered ! 

And  Guy  Fawkes,  we  had  heard,  had  his  head  cut  off, 
and  his  body  cut  into  quarters !  Could  this  be  true  ? 
Could  men  do  to  men  what  we  had  seen  Fulk  the  butcher 
do  to  sheep  ?  How  much,  we  thought,  had  little  boys  to 
grow  out  of  before  they  could  agree  to  this  !  And  then, 
when  done,  what  was  the  good  of  it — what  could  be  the 
good  of  it  ?  Was  Guy  Fawkes  eaten — if  not,  why  cut 
him  up  ? 

Had  Guy  Fawkes  a  wife,  and  little  boys  and  girls  ?  Did 
he  love  his  children,  and  buy  them  toys  and  apples — or, 
like  Sawney  Bean,  did  he  devour  them  ?  Did  Guy  Fawkes 
say  his  prayers  ? 

Had  Guy  Fawkes  a  friend?  Did  he  ever  laugh — did 
he  ever  tell  a  droll  story  ?  Did  Guy  Fawkes  ever  sing 
a  song  ?  Like  Frampton,  the  Blue  Town  Barber,  did 
Guy  Fawkes  ever  get  drunk  ?  At  length  we  put  to 
ourselves  the  question  of  questions  :  — 


GUY    FAWKES  73 

Was  there  ever  such  a  man  as  Guy  Fawkes  P  Did  Guy 
Fawkes  ever  live  ? 

This  query  annoyed  us  with  the  doubt  that  we  had  been 
tricked  into  a  hate,  a  fear,  a  loathing,  a  wonder — and  a 
mixture  of  these  passions  and  emotions,  for  a  fib.  We 
felt  disappointed  when  we  felt  the  reality  of  Guy  Fawkes 
to  be  doubtful.  We  had  heard  of  griffins  and  unicorns, 
of  dragons  that  had  eaten  men  like  apples,  and  had  then 
been  told  that  there  never  had  been  any  such  thing.  If 
we  were  not  to  believe  in  a  dragon,  why  should  we  believe 
in  Guy  Fawkes  ?  After  all,  was  the  whole  story  but 
make-game  ? 

The  child  passively  accepts  a  story  of  the  future,  he  can 
bring  his  mind  up  to  a  thing  promised,  but  wants  faith  in 
the  past.  The  cause  is  obvious  ;  he  recollects  few  things 
gone,  but  is  full  of  things  to  come.  Hence  Guy  Fawkes 
was  with  us  the  ogre  of  a  nursery ;  we  could  have  readily 
believed,  especially  after  the  Story  of  Beauty  and  the  Beast, 
that  he  married  Goody  Two  Shoes,  and  was  the  father  of 
Little  Red  Riding  Hood. 

But  Guy  Fawkes  grows  with  us  from  boyhood  to  youth. 
He  gets  flesh  and  blood  with  every  November  ;  he  is  no 
longer  the  stuffed  plaything  of  a  schoolboy  or  the  grotesque 
excuse  for  begging  vagabonds,  but  the  veritable  Guy  Fawkes, 
"gentleman."  We  see  him,  "Thomas  Percy's  alleged 
man,"  at  the  door  of  the  vault,  "  booted  and  spurred  "  ;  we 
behold  that  "  very  tall  and  desperate  fellow,"  lurking  in  the 
deep  of  night,  with  looks  of  deadly  resolution,  pounced  upon 
by  that  vigilant  gentleman  of  the  privy-chamber,  Sir  Thomas 
Knevit !  We  go  with  Guido,  "  the  new  Mutius  Scaevola, 
born  in  England,"  before  the  council,  where  "he  often 
smiles  in  scornful  manner,  not  only  avowing  the  fact,  but 
repenting  only,  with  the  said  Scasvola,  his  failing  in  the 
execution  thereof."  We  think  of  him  "answering  quickly 
to  every  man's  objection,  scoffing  at  any  idle  questions  which 


74 


GUY    FAWKES 


were  propounded  to  him,  and  jesting  with  such  as  he  thought 
had  no  authority  to  examine  him."  And  then  we  think 
of  the  thanksgiving  of  the  great  James,  who  gave  praise 
that,  had  the  intent  of  the  wicked  prevailed,  he  should  not 
have  "  died  ingloriously  in  an  ale-house,  a  stew,  or  such 
vile*  place,"  but  with  "  the  best  and  most  honourable 
company.' ' 1 

Guy  Fawkes  is,  in  our  baby  thoughts,  a  mysterious  vision, 
one  of  the  shadows  of  evil  advancing  on  the  path  of  child- 
hood. We  grow  older,  and  the  substances  of  evil  come 
close  upon  us — we  see  their  dark  lantern,  and  snuff  the 
brimstone. 

1  See  "  His  Majesty's  Speech  concerning  the  Gunpowder  Plot," 
etc.,  in  the  Harleian  Miscellany. 


ELIZABETH  AND  VICTORIA 

Every  generation  compared  to  the  age  it  immediately 
succeeds  is  but  a  further  lapse  from  Paradise.  Every 
grandfather  is  of  necessity  a  wiser,  kinder,  nobler  being 
that  the  grandson  doomed  to  follow  him — every  grand- 
mother chaster,  gentler,  more  self-denying,  more  devoted 
to  the  beauty  of  goodness,  than  the  giddy,  vain,  thoughtless 
creature,  who  in  her  time  is  sentenced  to  be  grandmother 
to  somebody,  whose  still  increased  defects  will  only  serve 
to  bring  out  the  little  lustre  of  the  gentlewoman  who  pre- 
ceded her.  Man,  undoubtedly,  had  at  the  first  a  fixed 
amount  of  goodness  bestowed  upon  him  ;  but  this  goodness, 
by  being  passed  from  generation  to  generation,  has,  like 
a  very  handsome  piece  of  coin,  with  arms  and  legend  in 
bold  relief,  become  so  worn  by  continual  transit,  that  it 
demands  the  greatest  activity  of  faith  to  believe  that  which 
is  now  current  in  the  world,  to  be  any  portion  of  the 
identical  goodness  with  which  the  human  race  was  origin- 
ally endowed.  Hapless  creatures  are  we !  Moral  paupers 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  turning  a  shining  cheek  upon  one 
another,  and  by  the  potent  force  of  swagger,  passing  off  our 

75 


76     ELIZABETH    AND    VICTORI 


• 


thin,  worn,  illegible  pieces  of  coin — how  often,  no  thicker, 
no  weightier  than  a  spangle  on  a  player's  robe! — when  our 
glorious  ancestors,  in  the  grandeur  of  their  goodness,  could 
ring  down  musical  shekels  !  Nay,  as  we  go  back,  we  find 
the  coin  of  excellence  so  heavy,  so  abounding,  that  how  any 
man — Samson  perhaps  excepted — had  strength  enough  to 
carry  his  own  virtues  about  him,  puzzles  the  effeminacy  of 
present  thought.  Folks  then  were  doubtless  made  grave, 
majestic  in  their  movements  by  the  very  weight  of  their 
excellence.  Whilst  we,  poor  anatomies — skipjacks  of  the 
nineteenth  century — we  carry  all  our  ready  virtue  in  either 
corner  of  our  waistcoat  pocket,  and  from  its  very  lightness, 
are  unhappily  enabled  to  act  all  sorts  of  unhallowed  capers 
— to  forget  the  true  majesty  of  man  in  the  antics  of  the 
mountebank.     Forlorn  degradation  of  the  human  race  ! 

But  the  tears  of  the  reader — for  if  he  have  a  heart  of 
flesh,  it  is  by  this  time  melting  in  his  eyes — are  not  confi- 
dently demanded  for  only  the  one  generation  whereof 
(seeing  he  is  our  reader)  he  is  certainly  not  the  worst 
unit :  but  we  here  require  of  him  to  weep  for  posterity ; 
yes,  to  subscribe  a  rivulet  of  tears  for  the  generations  to 
come.  The  coinage  of  the  virtues  at  present  in  circulation 
among  us  is  so  thin,  so  defaced,  so  battered,  so  dipt,  that 
it  appears  to  us  wholly  impossible  that  any  portion  of  the 
currency  can  descend  a  couple  of  generations  lower.  What, 
then,  is  to  become  of  our  grandchildren  ?  Without  one 
particle  of  golden  truth  and  goodness  left  to  them,  for  we 
cannot  take  into  account  the  two  or  three  pieces  hoarded — 
as  old  ladies  have  hoarded  silver  pennies — what  remains, 
what  alternative  for  our  descendants  but  to  become  a 
generation  of  coiners  ?  Can  any  man  withstand  the  terror 
of  this  picture,  wherein  all  the  world  are  shown  as  so  many 
passers  of  pocket-pieces,  lacquered  over  with  something  that 
seems  like  gold  and  silver,  but  which,  indeed,  is  only  seeming  ? 
A  picture  wherein  he  who  is  the  ablest  hypocrite — passing 


ELIZABETH    AND    VICTORIA     77 

off  the  greatest  amount  of  false  coin  upon  his  neighbour 
— shall  appear  the  most  virtuous  person !  Is  not  this 
an  appalling  scene  to  contemplate  ?  Yet,  if  there  be 
any  truth  in  a  common  theory,  if  there  be  any  veracity  in 
the  words  written  in  a  thousand  pages,  uttered  at  every 
fireside,  dropt  in  the  casual  meeting  of  man  and  man  at 
door-steps,  in  by-lanes,  highways,  and  market-places — the 
picture  we  have  shadowed  forth  must  become  an  iron 
present. 

"  We  shall  never  see  such  times  again !  " 
"  The  world  isn't  what  it  used  to  be." 
"  When  I  was  a  boy,  things  hadn't  come  to  this  pass." 
"  The  world  gets  wickeder  and  wickeder." 
Since  the  builders  of  Babel  were  scattered,  these  thoughts 
have  been  voiced  in  every  tongue.  From  the  very  dis- 
content and  fantasticalness  of  his  nature,  man  looks  back- 
ward at  the  lost  Paradise  of  another  age.  He  affects  to 
snuff  the  odour  of  its  fruits  and  flowers,  and  with  a 
melancholy  shaking  of  the  head,  sees,  or  thinks  he  sees, 
the  flashing  of  the  fiery  swords  that  guard  them.  And 
then,  in  the  restlessness  of  his  heart,  in  the  peevishness 
and  discontent  of  his  soul,  he  says  all  sorts  of  bitter  things 
of  the  generations  he  has  fallen  among  ;  and,  from  the 
vanished  glory  of  the  past,  predicts  increasing  darkness  for 
the  future.  Happily,  the  prophesying  cannot  be  true ;  and 
happily,  too,  for  the  condition  of  the  prophet,  he  knows  it 
will  not.  But  then  there  is  a  sort  of  comfort  in  the  way- 
wardness of  discontent ;  at  times,  a  soothing  music  to  the 
restlessness  of  the  soul  in  the  deep  bass  of  hearty 
grumbling. 

The  ingratitude  of  the  act  is  entirely  forgotten  in  the 
pleasure.  u  Ha !  those  were  the  merry  days — the  golden 
times  of  England  they  were !  "  May  not  this  be  heard 
from  the  tradesman,  the  mechanic,  as  he  is  borne  past 
Tilbury  Fort,  and  the  thoughts  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  of  her 


78     ELIZABETH    AND    VICTORIA 

"  golden  days,"  ring  in  his  brain  ;  and  living  only  in  the 
nineteenth  century,  he  has  some  vague,  perplexing  notion 
that  he  has  missed  an  Eden,  only  by  a  hundred  years  or  two  ? 
He  thinks  not — why  should  he? — of  the  luxury  he  now 
purchases  for  a  shilling  ;  a  luxury,  not  compassable  in  those 
golden  days  by  all  the  power  and  wealth  of  all  the  com- 
bining sovereigns  of  the  earth,  for  he  is  a  passenger  of  a 
Gravesend  steamboat,  the  fare  twelvepence. 

We  would  not  forget  that  wonder  of  Elizabeth's  navy, 
the  Great  Harry.  No ;  we  would  especially  remember  it, 
to  compare  the  marvel,  with  all  its  terrors,  to  the  agent  of 
our  day,  which,  wrought  and  directed  from  a  few  gallons  of 
water,  makes  the  winged  ship  but  as  a  log — a  dead  leviathan 
upon  the  deep ;  which,  in  the  certainty  and  intensity  of  its 
power  of  destruction  must,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  make 
blood-spilling  war  bankrupt,  preaching  peace  with  all  men, 
even  from  "  the  cannon's  mouth." 

We  are,  however,  a  degenerate  race.  In  our  maudlin 
sensibility,  we  have  taken  under  our  protection  the  very 
brutes  of  the  earth — the  fowls  of  the  air — the  fish  of  the 
sea.  We  have  cast  the  majesty  of  the  law  around  the 
asses  of  the  reign  of  Victoria — have  assured  to  live  geese  a 
property  in  their  own  feathers — have,  with  a  touch  of  tender- 
ness, denounced  the  wood-plugged  claws  of  the  lobsters  of 
Billingsgate.  We  have  a  society,  whose  motto,  spiritually, 
is — 

M  Nevef  to  link  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 

With  suffering  of  the  meanest  thing  that  lives." 

Very  different,  indeed,  was  the  spirit  of  the  English 
people,  when  their  good  and  gracious  Queen  Elizabeth 
smiled  sweetly  upon  bull  dogs,  and  found  national  music 
in  the  growl,  the  roar,  and  the  yell  of  a  bear-garden ; 
whereto,  in  all  the  courtesy  of  a  nobler  and  more  virtuous 
age,  the   sovereign   led  the  French  ambassador ;    that,  as 


ELIZABETH    AND    VICTORIA     79 

chroniclers  tell  us,  Monsieur  might  arrive  at  a  sort  of 
comparative  knowledge  of  English  bravery,  judging  the 
courage  of  the  people  by  the  stubborn  daring  of  their 
dogs. 

Then  we  had  no  Epsom,  with  its  high  moralities — no 
Ascot,  with  its  splendour  and  wealth.  Great,  indeed,  was 
the  distance — deep  the  abyss — between  the  sovereign  and 
the  sovereign  people. 

And  in  those  merry,  golden  days  of  good  Queen  Bess,  rank 
was  something  ;  it  had  its  brave  outside,  and  preached  its 
high  prerogative  from  externals.  The  nobleman  declared 
his  nobility  by  his  cloak,  doublet  and  jerkin  ;  by  the  plumes 
in  his  hat ;  by  the  jewels  flashing  in  his  shoes.  Society,  in 
all  its  gradations,  was  inexorably  marked  by  the  tailor  and 
goldsmith. 

But  what  is  the  tailor  of  the  nineteenth  century  ?  What 
doth  he  for  nobility  ?  Alas  !  next  to  nothing.  The  gentle- 
man is  no  longer  the  creature  of  the  tailor's  hands — the 
being  of  his  shop-board.  The  gentleman  must  dress  himself 
in  ease,  in  affability,  in  the  gentler  and  calmer  courtesies  of 
life,  to  make  distinguishable  the  nobility  of  his  nature  from 
the  homeliness,  the  vulgarity  of  the  very  man  who,  it  may 
be,  finds  nobility  in  shoe-leather.  Thus,  gentility  of  blood, 
deprived  by  innovation  of  its  external  livery — denied  the 
outward  marks  of  supremacy — is  thrown  upon  its  bare  self 
to  make  good  its  prerogative.  Manner  must  now  do  the 
former  duty  of  fine  clothes. 

State,  too,  was  in  the  blessed  times  of  Elizabeth  a  most 
majestic  matter.  The  queen's  carriage,  unlike  Victoria's, 
was  a  vehicle  wondrous  in  the  eyes  of  men  as  the  chariot 
of  King  Pharaoh.  Now,  does  every  poor  man  keep  his 
coach — price  sixpence !  How  does  the  economy  of  luxury 
vulgarise  the  indulgence  ? 

Travelling  was  then  a  grave  and  serious  adventure.  The 
horse-litter  was  certainly  a  more  dignified  means  of  transit 


8o     ELIZABETH    AND    VICTORIA 


than  the  fuming,  boiling,  roaring  steam-engine,  that  rushes 
forward  with  a  man  as  though  the  human  anatomy  was  no 
more  than  a  woolpack.  In  the  good  old  times  of  Queen 
Bess,  a  man  might  take  his  five  long  days  and  more  for  a 
hundred  miles,  putting  up,  after  a  week's  jolting,  at  his 
hostelry,  the  Queen's  Head  of  Islington,  for  one  good 
night's  rest,  ere  he  should  gird  up  his  loins  to  enter 
London.  Now  is  man  taught  to  lose  all  respect  for  the 
hoariness  of  time  by  the  quickness  of  motion.  Now  may 
he  pass  over  two  hundred  miles  in  some  seven  or  eight  hours 
if  he  will,  taking  his  first  meal  in  the  heart  of  Lancashire, 
and  his  good-night  glass  at  a  Geneva  palace  in  London. 


ELIZABETH    AND    VICTORIA     81 

Is  it  wonderful  that  our  present  days  should  abound  more 
in  sinful  levity  than  the  days  of  the  good  Queen  Elizabeth, 
seeing  that  we  may,  in  the  same  space  of  time,  crowd  so 
much  more  iniquity  ?  The  truth  is,  science  has  thrown  so 
many  hours  upon  our  hands,  that  we  are  compelled  to  kill 
them  with  all  sorts  of  arrows — which,  as  moralists  declare, 
have  mortal  poison  at  the  barb,  however  gay  and  brilliant 
may  be  the  feathers  that  carry  it  home.  Dreadful  will  be 
the  time  when  that  subtle  fiend,  science,  shall  perform 
nearly  all  human  drudgery ;  for  then  men  in  their  very 
idleness  will  have  nought  else  to  destroy  save  their  own  souls  ; 
and  the  destruction  will,  of  course,  be  quicker,  and,  to  the 
father  of  all  mischief,  much  more  satisfactory. 

Again,  in  the  good  times  of  Elizabeth,  humanity  was 
blessed  with  a  modesty,  a  deference — in  these  days  of 
bronze,  to  be  vainly  sought  for — towards  the  awfulness  of 
power,  the  grim  majesty  of  authority.  And  if,  indeed,  it 
happened  that  some  outrageous  wretch,  forgetful  of  the 
purpose  of  nature  in  creating  him  the  Queen's  liegeman, 
and  therefore  her  property — if,  for  a  moment,  he  should 
cease  to  remember  the  fealty  which,  by  the  principle  of  the 
divine  right  of  kings,  should  be  vital  to  him  as  the  blood 
in  his  veins — why,  was  there  not  provided  for  him,  by  the 
benignity  of  custom  and  the  law,  a  salutary  remedy  ?  If  he 
advanced  a  new  opinion,  had  he  not  ears  wherewith,  by 
hangman's  surgery,  he  might  be  cured  of  such  disease  ? 
If  he  took  a  mistaken  view  of  the  rights  of  his  fellow- 
subjects,  might  he  not  be  taught  to  consider  them  from  a 
higher  point  of  elevation,  and  so  be  instructed  ? 

Booksellers,  in  the  merry  time  of  Elizabeth,  were  enabled 
to  vindicate  a  higher  claim  to  moral  and  physical  daring  than 
is  permitted  to  them  in  these  dull  and  drivelling  days.  He 
who  published  a  book,  questioning — though  never  so  gently 
— the  prerogative  of  her  Majesty  to  do  just  as  the  spirit 
should  move  her,  might  have  his  right  hand  chopped  off, 

F 


82     ELIZABETH    AND    VICTORIA 

and  afterwards — there  have  been  examples  of  such  devotion 
— wave  his  bloody  stump,  with  a  loyal  shout  of  "  God  save 
the  Queen  !  "  But  these  were  merry  days — golden  days — 
in  which  the  royal  prerogative  was  more  majestic,  more 
awful  than  in  the  nineteenth  century.  And  wherefore  ? 
The  reason  is  plain  as  the  Queen's  arms. 

The  king  of  beasts  lives  on  flesh.  His  carnivorousness 
is  one  of  the  great  elements  of  his  Majesty.  So  was  it  in 
the  times  of  Elizabeth,  with  the  Queen's  prerogative.  It 
was  for  the  most  part  fed  upon  flesh.  It  would  be  a  curious 
and  instructive  calculation  could  we  arrive  at  the  precise 
number  of  noses,  and  arms,  and  hands,  and  human  heads, 
and  quarters  of  human  carcases,  which — during  the  merry, 
golden  reign  of  Elizabeth,  of  those  days  we  shall  never  see 
again — were  required  by  law  to  keep  strong  and  lusty  the 
prerogative  of  the  Virgin  Queen  I  How,  as  the  human 
head  festered  and  rotted  above  the  city  gates,  was  the  pre- 
rogative sweetened  by  the  putrefaction  !  And  then  the 
daily  lessons  preached  by  the  mute  horror  of  the  dead  man's 
mouth,  to  the  human  life  daily  passing  beneath  it !  What 
precepts  of  love  and  gentleness  towards  all  men  fell  from 
the  shrivelled  lips — what  Christianity  gleamed  from  the 
withered  eye-balls !  How  admirably  were  the  every-day 
thoughts  of  men  associated  with  prerogative,  its  majesty  for 
ever  preached  by  dead  men's  tongues — its  beauty  visible  in 
dead  men's  flesh.  Those  were  the  golden  days — the  merry 
days — we  shall  never  see  such  times  again.  Now,  a  poor 
and  frivolous  race,  we  pass  beneath  Temple  Bar,  untaught 
by  the  grim  moralities  that  from  its  height  were  wont  to 
instruct  our  forefathers.  In  the  days  of  Elizabeth  we 
might  have  lounged  at  the  door  of  the  city  shopkeeper,  and 
whilst  chaffering  for  a  commodity  of  this  world,  have  had 
our  thoughts  elevated  by  a  consideration  of  the  ghastly 
skull — grinning  a  comment  upon  all  earthly  vanities — 
above  us.     Those   days  are  gone — passed  for  ever.     We 


ELIZABETH    AND    VICTORIA     85 

have  now  plate-glass  and  dainty  painting,  and  precious 
woods,  in  the  shops  of  our  tradesmen,  but  nought  to  take 
us  from  the  vanity  of  life — no  prerogative  of  a  Virgin 
Queen,  in  the  useful  semblance  of  a  memento  mori. 

It  is  to  the  want  of  such  stern  yet  wholesome  monitors 
we  are  doubtless  to  attribute  the  decay  of  the  national 
character.  We  are  sunk  in  effeminacy,  withered  by  the 
fond  ministerings  of  science.  The  road  of  life — which, 
by  its  ruggedness,  was  wont  to  try  the  sinews  of  our 
Elizabethan  ancestors — we,  their  degenerate  children,  have 
spread  as  with  a  carpet,  and  hung  the  walls  around  us  with 
radiant  tapestry.  The  veriest  household  drudge  of  our 
time  is  a  Sardanapalus  compared  to  the  lackey  of  the 
Virgin  Queen.  The  tatterdemalion,  who  lives  on  highway 
alms,  may  look  down  upon  the  beggar  of  Elizabeth  ;  for 
the  mendicant  of  Victoria  may,  with  his  prayed-for  pence, 
purchase  luxuries  unknown  to  the  Dives  of  former  days. 

And  what — if  we  listen  to  complaining  patriotism — what 
is  the  evil  born  of  this  ?  A  loss  of  moral  energy  ;  a  wasting 
away  of  national  fibre.  Believe  this  melancholy  philosophy, 
and  national  weakness  came  in  (a  moral  moth  in  the  com- 
modity) with  silk  stockings.  Ere  then  was  the  bearing  of 
man  more  majestic  in  the  eyes  of  angels !  For  then  was 
the  sword  the  type  of  station,  a  gentleman  no  more 
appearing  abroad  without  his  rapier  than  a  wasp  without 
its  sting.  Human  life  could  not  but  lose  part  of  its  dignity 
with  its  cold  steel.  What  a  fine  comment  on  the  charity, 
the  gentleness,  the  humanity  of  his  fellow-men,  did  every 
gentleman  wear  at  his  side !  He  was,  in  a  manner,  his  own 
law-maker,  his  own  executioner.  In  the  judgment  of  later 
philosophy,  we  are  prone  to  believe  that  the  said  gentlemen 
may  appear,  at  the  best,  ferocious  simpletons — creatures 
swaggering  "  between  heaven  and  earth,"  with  their  hands 
upon  their  hilts,  ready  and  yearning  for  a  thrust  at  those 
who  took  the  wall  of  their  gentility.     Ha  !   those,  indeed, 


86     ELIZABETH    AND    VICTORIA 

were  the  good  old  days  !  And  then  came  a  whining,  curd- 
complexioned  benevolence,  and  in  progress  of  time,  its  thin, 
white,  womanly  fingers  unbuckled  the  sword-belt  of  the 
bully,  and  organised  police.  Sword-makers  were  bankrupt, 
and  human  nature  lost  a  grace  ! 

Thus,  it  appears,  the  world  has  been  from  age  to  age 
declining  in  virtue,  and  can  only  escape  the  very  profound 
of  iniquity  by  a  speedy  dissolution.  Every  half  dozen 
years  or  so,  a  prophet  growls  from  a  cellar,  or  cries  from 
the  altitude  of  a  garret,  the  advent  of  the  last  day.  An 
earthquake,  or  some  other  convulsion  (the  particulars  of 
which  are  only  vouchsafed  to  the  prophet)  is  to  destroy 
the  earth  or  London  at  least ;  whereupon  old  gentlemen 
remove  to  Gravesend,  and  careful  housewives  take  stock 
of  their  plate.  Now,  every  such  prophecy,  instead  of 
bewildering  honest  people  with  all  sorts  of  fears,  and  all 
sorts  of  anxieties  for  their  personal  property,  ought  to 
make  them  sing  thanksgiving  songs  for  the  promised 
blessing.  It  being  the  creed  of  these  people  that  the  world 
gets  worse  and  worse,  they  would  at  least  have  the  comfort 
to  know  that  they  had  seen  the  last  of  its  wickedness. 
For  a  moment,  reader,  we  will  suppose  you  one  of  these. 
Consider,  upon  your  own  faith,  what  a  terrible  wretch  will 
necessarily  be  your  great-great-great-great-great-grandson  ! 
Well,  would  it  not  be  satisfaction  to  you  that  this  dragon 
(we  believe  dragons  are  oviparous)  should  be  crushed  in 
the  egg  of  the  future  ?  How  would  you  like  your  own 
flesh  and  blood  inevitably  changed  by  the  course  of  time 
into  the  anatomy  of  something  very  like  a  demon  ?  You 
are  bad  enough  as  you  are  ;  that  dismal  truth  your  own 
humility  preaches  to  you;  to  say  nothing  of  the  plain 
speaking  of  your  neighbours.  No  ;  out  of  pure  love  and 
pity  for  humanity,  you  ought  to  wish  all  the  world  to  stop 
with  your  own  pulse.  It  is  hard  enough  now,  even  for 
the  best  of  us,   to   keep   on   the    respectable  side   of  the 


ELIZABETH    AND    VICTORIA     87 

statutes  ;  but,  with  the  growing  wickedness  of  the  world, 
we  should  like  to  know  what  sort  of  metal  will  the  laws 
be  made  of.  The  great  social  link  must  inevitably  be  a 
fetter. 

How  often  have  we  stood,  with  the  unseen  tears  in  our 
eyes,  watching  the  nobility  of  the  land,  in  nobility's  best 
bib  and  tucker,  winding  in  golden  line  to  the  drawing- 
room  of  Queen  Victoria  !  Alas !  degenerate  dukes — 
faded  duchesses.  Marquises  fallen  upon  evil  times — 
marchionesses  very  dim  indeed  !  What  are  you  to  the 
nobility  of  Elizabeth  ?  What  to  the  grandees  of  those 
merry  days,  the  golden  shadow  of  which  is  brightness 
itself  to  the  cold,  grey  glimmering  of  the  present  ?  We 
have  yet  one  thought  to  comfort  us ;  and  that  is,  a  half 
belief  that  the  court  of  Elizabeth  was  held  as  nothing  to 
all  courts  preceding ;  and  so  back,  until  Englishmen 
mourned  over  the  abomination  of  cloaks  and  vests, 
sorrowing  for  those  golden  days,  those  good  old  times 
of  the  painted  Britons !  Great  was  the  virtue  abounding 
in  nvoad ;  grievous  the  wilful  iniquity  woven  in  broad-cloth. 
Queen  Elizabeth  died — fair,  regal  bud  ! — in  the  sweet- 
ness of  virginity;  and  though  the  sun  (by  some  despairing 
effort)  managed  to  rise  the  next  morning,  it  has  never 
been  wholly  itself  since.  She  died,  and  was  brought  to 
Whitehall,  to  the  great  calamity  of  the  fish  then  swimming 
in  the  river ;  for  a  poet  of  the  day,  quoted  by  Camden, 
has  eternised  the  evil  that  in  the  hour  fell  upon  Thames 
flounders : — 

"  The  Queene  was  brought  by  water  to  Whitehall  ; 
At  every  stroke  the  oares  teares  let  fall  ; 
More  clung  about  the  barge ;  fish  under  water 
Wept  out  their  eyes  of  pear  le,  and  sivame  blinde  after. 
I  think  the  bargemen  might  with  easier  thighes 
Have  rowed  her  thither  in  her  people's  eyes. 
Yet,  hovvsoere,  thus  much  my  thoughts  have  scann'd, 
She'd  come  by  water,  had  she  come  by  land." 


88     ELIZABETH    AND    VICTORIA 

So  closed  the  golden  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth ;  leaving 
us,  in  all  the  virtues  and  comforts  of  the  world,  the  bankrupt 
children  of  Queen  Victoria ! 

Unworthy  is  he  of  the  balmy  sweetness  of  this  blessed 
May  who  can  think  so !  A  churlish,  foolish,  moody 
traitor  to  the  spirit  of  goodness  and  beauty  that,  as  with 
the  bounty  of  the  sun  and  air,  calls  up  forms  of  loveliness 
in  his  path,  and  surrounds  him  with  ten  thousand  household 
blessings !  With  active  presences,  which  the  poet  of 
Elizabeth,  in  even  his  large  love  for  man  could  scarce 
have  dreamed  of;  or,  dreaming,  seen  them  as  a  part  of 
fairy  fantasy — a  cloud-woven  pageant ! 

Let  the  man  who  lives  by  his  daily  sweat  pause  in  his 
toil,  and,  with  his  foot  upon  his  spade,  watch  the  white 
smoke  that  floats  in  the  distance  ;  listen  to  the  lessening 
thunder  of  the  engine  that,  instinct  with  Vulcanic  life,  has 
rushed,  devouring  space,  before  it.  That  little  curl  of 
smoke  hangs  in  the  air  a  thing  of  blessed  promise — that 
roar  of  the  engine  is  the  melody  of  hope  to  unborn  genera- 
tions. But  now,  the  digger  of  the  soil  looks  moodily  at 
that  vapour,  and  his  heart  is  festering  with  the  curse  upon 
the  devil  Steam  ;  that  fiend  that  grinds  his  bones  beneath 
the  wheels  of  British  Juggernaut.  Poor  creature  !  The 
seeming  demon  is  a  beneficent  presence  that,  in  the  ripeness 
of  time,  will  work  regeneration  of  the  hopes  of  men. 

Let  the  poor  man — the  mechanic  of  a  town — look 
around  him.  Let  him  in  his  own  house,  humble  though 
it  be,  acknowledge  the  presence  of  a  thousand  comforts 
which,  had  he  lived  two  centuries  ago,  he  could  not  with 
a  baron's  wealth  have  purchased.  Not  mere  creature 
enjoyments ;  but  humanizing,  refining  pleasures,  drawing 
man  nearer  to  man,  expanding  the  human  heart,  and 
imparting  to  humanity  the  truest  greatness  in  the  greatest 
gentleness. 

"  What !  "  it  may  be  asked,  "  can  you  have  the  hardi- 


ELIZABETH    AND    VICTORIA     89 

hood,  or  the  ignorance,  to  vaunt  these  days  above  the 
days  of  Elizabeth  ?  These  days  with  famine  throwing 
the  shuttle — with  ignorance,  wholly  brutish,  digging  in  the 
pit — with  gold,  a  monster  all  brain,  and  so  the  very  worst 
of  monsters — dominating  throughout  the  land,  and  crushing 
the  pulses  of  thousands  within  its  hard,  relentless  grasp? 
Would  you  not  rather  pray  for  a  return  of  those  merry, 
merry  days,  when  men  were  whipped,  imprisoned,  branded, 
burnt,  at  little  more  than  the  mere  will  of  Majesty,  for 
mere  opinion — but  who  had,  nevertheless,  bacon  and  bread 
and  ale  sufficient  to  the  day  ? " 

No  ;  we  would  go  no  step  backward,  but  many  in  advance  ; 
our  faith  still  increasing  in  the  enlarged  sympathies  of  men  ; 
in  the  reverence  which  man  has  learned  and  is  still  learning 
to  pay  towards  the  nature  of  his  fellow-men  ;  in  the  deep 
belief  that  whatever  change  may  and  must  take  place  in  the 
social  fabric — we  have  that  spirit  of  wisdom  and  tolerance 
(certainly  not  a  social  creature  of  the  golden  days)  waxing 
strong  among  us, — so  strong  that  the  fabric  will  be  altered 
and  repaired  brick  by  brick,  and  stone  by  stone.  Meanwhile, 
the  scaffolding  is  fast  growing  up  about  it. 


THE  LITTLE  GREAT  AND  THE  GREAT 
LITTLE 

Extraordinary  is  the  mind  of  man  !  He  sails  in  mid-air  ; 
he  compasseth  the  globe ;  he  blunts  the  lightning  ;  he 
writeth  Hamlet,  Paradise  Lost,  the  Princip'ia,  and  he  chaineth 
a  flea  by  the  leg.  He  maketh  the  strong  elephant  to  bend 
his  joints,  and  he  subdueth  a  flea,  if  not  to  "  hew  wood," 
at  least  to  draw  water.  These,  the  later  triumphs  of  the 
human  essence,  are  now  on  exhibition  somewhere  in  that 
long  ark  for  modern  monsters,  Regent  Street !  Yes,  the 
"  Industrious  Fleas  "  at  once  delight  and  shame  fashionable 
idlers,  sending  them  to  their  beds  to  ruminate  on  the  sagacity 
of  the  living  world  about  them. 

We  love  a  monster  as  much  as  ever  did  Trinculo  ;  hence 
we  have  been  bitten  ;  that  is,  we  have  made  acquaintance 
with  the  "  Industrious  Fleas."  Let  us  shortly  enumerate 
their  separate  capabilities.  One  flea,  a  fine  muscular  fellow, 
worthy,  did  fairies  die,  to  be  mourning  coach  horse  at  the 
funeral  of  Queen  Titania  (how  long  since  the  fairies  had  a 
9^ 


THE    LITTLE    GREAT  91 

coronation  !),  draws  a  very  splendid  carriage,  constructed 
from  the  pith  of  elder.  He  curvets,  and  bounds,  and 
shows  his  blood  (he  must  have  been  fed  in  some  royal 
stable — he  has  surely  fattened  on  kings)  with  the  proudest 
royal  coach-horse,  on — as  they  say  at  public  dinners — 
u  the  proudest  day  of  its  life."  Having  seen  its  legs, 
we  shall  think  more  seriously  of  the  kick  of  a  flea  ever 
after.  Then,  to  talk  of  a  "  flea  bite,"  as  a  proverb  for 
a  wife — a  mere  nothing  ;  let  those  who  speak  thus  vainly 
contemplate  the  terrible  proboscis  of  the  aforesaid  chariot 
flea,  and  then  think  of  the  formidable  weapon,  plunged 
through  one's  tender  skin,  and  sucking  up  by  quarts  (we 
saw,  we  looked  through  a  microscope)  our  hearts'  best 
blood !  To  go  to  bed  appears  no  wonder,  but  to  be 
able  to  rise  again  after  what  we  have  beheld,  seems  to 
us  a  daily  miracle !  To  proceed.  Another  of  the  **  in- 
dustrious "  takes  the  air  with  a  chain  and  a  weight  to  his 
leg,  the  wonder  consisting  in  its  resignation  to  its  destiny. 
A  third  flea,  also  manacled,  draws  water.  A  fourth 
flea  has  a  more  awful  duty — 16  bear  Napoleon  Bonaparte, 
late  of  France,  but  now  of  St  Helena — there  he  is,  the 
victor  of  a  hundred  fights,  majestically  seated  on  flea  back. 
An  enthusiastic  Frenchman  may,  if  he  have  good  eyes,  see 
in  the  miniature  emperor,  the  sallow,  thoughtful  face,  the 
"brassy  eye"  (vide  Haydon's  account)  of  the  original 
despot — could  the  figure  take  snuff,  the  illusion  would  be 
perfect.  Two  other  fleas,  soldiers,  fight  a  desperate  com- 
bat, affording  in  their  proper  persons  a  triumphant  refutation 
to  the  celebrated  dogma  of  the  philosopher,  that  "  fleas  are 
not  lobsters."  We  understood  from  the  Cicerone  that  their 
deadly  enmity  was  excited  towards  each  other  by  a  mutual 
tickling.  We  were  also  informed  that  one  of  the  fleas 
("  epicurean  animal !  ")  had  the  honour  to  sup  off  the  hand 
of  the  Princess  Augusta.  This  fact  was  shamefully  hushed 
up  by  the  magas  of  the  Court  Circular^  else  how  would  it 


92  THE    LITTLE    GREAT 

have  astonished  the  world  to  have  read  that "  last  night  Her 
Royal  Highness  the  Princess  Augusta  gave  a  supper  to  the 
fleas !  "  Certain  it  is,  the  document  contains  at  times  news 
of  less  interest.1  This  condescension  on  the  part  of  her 
Highness,  though  it  speaks  much  for  her  affability,  has  been 
the  cause  of  grievous  heartburnings  and  bickerings  among 
the  society.  It  is  extraordinary  the  airs  that  every  flea 
gives  himself  about  "  his  blood."  However,  it  is  to  be 
hoped  that  a  herald  will  be  appointed  to  settle  the  claims  of 
each  disputant,  and  to  favour  the  whole  with  a  genealogical 
tree.  Who  knows  whether  one  of  these  fleas'  ancestors 
did  not  bite  Sancho  Panza,  or  the  Dulcinea  del  Toboso,  or 
the  Carters,  who  were  "  bitten  like  a  tench  "  ?  Speaking 
on  our  own  responsibility,  we  are  afraid  that  each  of  these 
little  creatures,  after  all  its  vanity  about  pure  blood,  has  been 
somewhat  capricious  in  its  appetite  ;  a  fault,  by  the  by,  which 
often  puzzles  the  heralds  in  their  labours,  for  certain  other 
little  animals  are  very  angry,  when  they  speak  of  blood, 
too. 

We  quitted  the  exhibition,  and  walking  at  a  melancholy 
pace,  with  our  long,  lean  visage  bent  towards  the  earth,  we 
were  accosted  by  a  man — an  odd-looking  person,  with  a 
box  at  his  back — who  begged  we  would  stop  and  see  his 
show.  We  were  in  a  sight-seeing  humour,  and  at  once 
consented.  The  box  was  placed  on  a  trestle,  our  eye  was 
at  the  glass,  and  our  ears  open,  when  the  man  commenced 
his  description : — 

**  The  first  view  presents  you  with  a  grand  state  coach  of 
the  Great  Mogul ;  it  is  drawn  by  a  thousand  curious 
animals  ;  they  are,  as  you  will  perceive,  very  finely  dressed 
in  rich  harness,  tall  feathers,  and  flying  ribbons  ;  they  come 
and  tie  themselves  to  the  coach,  and  feel  it  an  honour  to  be 

1  Her  Majesty  the  Queen,  and  Prince  George  of  Cumberland, 
stood  the  whole  of  the  sermon  !  !  —  Court  Circular,  April  8, 
1832. 


AND    THE    GREAT    LITTLE       93 

bridled  ;  they  snort,  and  caper,  and  kick  mud  into  the  eyes 
of  the  bystanders. 

"  The  next  view  shows  you  one  of  these  animals  with  a 
long  chain  and  a  heavy  log.  This  chain  was  fixed  upon 
his  leg  when  he  was  born  ;  and  though  he  has  sometimes 
tried  to  file  away  the  links,  he  has  had  his  knuckles  so 
smartly  rapped,  and  been  called  so  many  names — been  so 
preached  to  that  the  chain  and  log  were  for  his  own  good, 
and  that  it  would  ruin  him  to  take  them  from  him — that 
'tis  likely  he  will,  for  the  public  benefit,  be  made  to  wear 
them  to  the  end  of  his  days. 

"  The  animal  in  the  next  view,  that  is  chained  and  draws 
water,  is  one  of  the  Great  Mogul's  million  of  slaves.  Al- 
though he  draws  bucket  after  bucketful  for  the  Mogul's 
house  and  his  household,  for  his  horses  and  his  dogs,  and 
his  kitchen,  and  his  flower  garden,  he  is  often  perishing 
himself  for  one  half  mouthful ;  his  lips  are  blistered,  and 
his  tongue  black,  with  the  water  drawn  by  his  own  hands, 
running  about  him. 

"  The  fourth  animal  is  mounted  on  a  fiery  dragon,  that, 
belching  flames,  kindles  forests,  fires  towns,  dries  rivers, 
blasts  harvests,  and  swallows  men,  women,  and  sucking  babes. 
Look  to  the  left,  and  the  dragon  is  turned  to  a  something 
no  bigger  than  a  mouse,  and  with  its  stinted  rations  of 
butter  and  cheese. 

"In  the  fifth  and  last  view  you  see  ten  thousand  of  these 
animals  ferociously  killing,  biting,  tearing  another  ten 
thousand,  whom  they  never  saw  till  a  few  minutes  ago,  and 
with  whom  they  have  no  quarrel.  But  they  kill  one  another 
because  they  are  tickled  to  do  so.  That  is,  certain  animals 
go  about  with  tickling  wands  called  *  glory,'  *  deathless 
renown,'  *  laurel,'  and  other  titillating  syllables,  poking  in 
the  ribs  of  the  poor  benighted  creatures." 

I  took  my  eye  from  the  glass  :  "  My  good  man,  what 
have  you  shown  me  ?  " 


94 


THE    LITTLE    GREAT 


"Fleas,  sir." 

"  Fleas  ! — nonsense  ;  the  fleas  are  shown  above." 
"  Yes,  sir  ;  but  mine  are  the  fleas  with  two  legs  ;  though, 
if  I  must  be  honest,  I  can't  say  I  see  any  difference  between 
the  fleas  in  my  show-box  and  the  fleas  above." 


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THE   MANAGERS    PIG 

"  Some  people  are  not  to  be  persuaded  to  taste  of  any  creatures 
they  have  daily  seen  and  been  acquainted  with  whilst  they  were 
alive.  ...  In  this  behaviour,  methinks  there  appears  some- 
thing like  a  consciousness  of  guilt;  it  looks  as  if  they  endeavoured 
to  save  themselves  from  the  imputation  of  a  crime  (which  they 
know  sticks  somewhere)  by  removing  the  cause  of  it  as  far  as 
they  can  from  themselves." — Mandeville. 


Aristides  Tinfoil,  it  is  our  fixed  belief,  was  intended  by 
nature  either  for  lawn  sleeves  or  ermined  robes  ;  he  was, 
we  doubt  it  not,  sent  into  this  world  an  embryo  bishop,  or 
a  lord-chief-justice  in  posse.  Such,  we  are  convinced,  was 
the  benignant  purpose  of  nature  ;  but  the  cruel  despotism  of 
worldly  circumstance  relentlessly  crossed  the  fair  design  ; 
and  Tinfoil,  with  a  heart  of  honey  and  a  head  of  iron,  was 
only  a  player — or,  we  should  rather  say,  a  master  among 
players.  Tinfoil  might  have  preached  charity-sermons  till 
tears  should  have  overflowed  the  pews  ;  no  matter,  he  acted 

95 


96  THE    MANAGER'S    PIG 

the  benevolent  old  men  to  the  sobs  and  spasms  of  a  crowded 
audience :  he  might,  with  singular  efficacy,  have  passed 
sentence  of  death  on  coiners  and  sheep-stealers ;  circum- 
stances, however,  confined  his  mild  reproofs  to  scene- 
shifters,  bill-stickers,  Cupids  at  one  shilling  per  night,  and 
white  muslin  Graces. 

"  Where  is  Mr  Moriturus  ? "  asked  Tinfoil,  chagrined 
at  the  untoward  absence  of  his  retainer.     "  Where  is  he  ?  " 

"111,  Sir,"  was  the  melancholy  answer,  "very  Ul." 

"  111 !  "  exclaimed  Tinfoil,  in  a  tone  of  anger,  quickly 
subsiding  into  mild  remonstrance.  "111! — why — why 
doesn't  the  good  man  die  at  once  ? " 

A  pretty  budding  girl  had,  unhappily,  listened  to  the 
silvery  tongue  of  a  rival  manager.  "  Take  her  from  the 
villain  !"  exclaimed  Tinfoil  to  the  sorrowing  parent ;  "  bring 
her  here,  and  then — then  Til  tell  you  what  I'll  do." 

"Dear,  kind  Mr  Tinfoil,  what  will  you  do  !  " 

"  I'll  bring  her  out,  Sir — bring  her  out  in — "  and  here 
the  manager  named  a  play  in  which  the  horrors  of  seduction 
are  painted  in  bold  colours  for  the  indignant  virtuous.  "I'll 
bring  her  out  in  that,  Sir,  as  a  particular  favour  to  you,  and 
sympathising  as  I  must  with  the  affliction  you  suffer,  I — I 
myself  will  play  the  injured  father,  Sir." 

These,  however,  are  but  faint  lines  in  the  strongly- 
marked  character  of  Tinfoil,  and  merely  displaying  them 
to  awaken  the  attention  of  the  reader  to  what  we  consider  a 
most  triumphant  piece  of  casuistry  on  the  part  of  our  hero — 
to  an  incident  which  admits  of  so  many  hundred  worldly 
illustrations — we  shall  proceed  to  the  pig.  The  subject, 
we  own,  may  appear  unpromising  from  its  extreme  home- 
liness ;  yet,  as  the  precious  bezoar  is  sought  for  in  deer  and 
goats,  so  may  a  pearl  of  price  be  found  even  in  a  pig. 

It  is  our  fervent  wish  to  be  most  exact  in  every  point  of 
this  little  history;  yet  cannot  we  remember  the  exact  year 
in    which  Tinfoil,    revolving    in  his   managerial  mind  the 


THE    MANAGER'S    PIG  97 

very  many  experiments  made  under  his  government  on  the 
curiosity  and  sensibilities  of  the  public,  determined  in  a 
golden  moment,  upon  the  introduction  of  a  pig,  in  a  drama 
to  be  expressly  written  for  the  animal's  capacities.  In  the 
slang  of  the  craft,  the  pig  was  to  be  measured  for  his  part. 

We  cannot  take  it  upon  ourselves  to  avow,  that  an  acci- 
dent of  late  occurrence  to  a  brother  actor,  did  not,  at  least 
remotely,  influence  the  choice  of  Tinfoil.  The  mishap 
was  this.  A  few  miles  from  London — for  the  sake  of 
unborn  generations  we  conceal  the  name  of  the  town — the 
dullard  denizens  had  manifested  an  extraordinary  apathy  to 
the  delights  of  the  drama.  In  the  despairing  words  of  one 
of  the  sufferers,  "  nothing  could  move  'em."  However, 
another  of  more  sanguine  temperament  resolved  to  make  a 
last  bold  effort  on  their  stubborn  souls,  and  to  such  high 
end,  set  a  pig  at  them.  Mingling  the  blandishments  of  the 
lottery  with  the  witcheries  of  the  drama,  he  caused  it  to  be 

printed  in  boldest  type  to  the  townspeople  of ,  that  a 

shower  of  little  bits  of  paper  would  take  place  between 
the  play  and  farce,  and  amidst  this  shower  a  prize  would 
descend,  conveying  to  the  lucky  possessor  the  entire  property 
of  a  real  China-bred  porker !  Inconceivable  as  to  us  it  is 
the  scheme  failed — the  pig  remained  live  stock  upon  the 
hands  of  the  projector,  who,  the  next  morning,  walked  to 
town ;  and  recounting  his  adverse  fortune  to  the  calculat- 
ing Tinfoil,  supplicated  any  employment. 

"  And  you  still  possess  the  pig  ?  Humph  !  "  mused  Tin- 
foil ;  "  perhaps  we  may  come  to  some  arrangement." 

In  few  words  the  applicant  was  admitted  among  Tinfoil's 
troop ;  the  pig,  at  a  nominal  price,  passing  into  the  hands 
of  the  manager. 

The  pig  was  no  sooner  a  member  of  the  company  than 
the  household  author  was  summoned  by  Tinfoil,  who,  in- 
troducing the  man  of  letters  to  the  porker,  shortly  intimated 
that  "he  must  write  a  part  for  him." 

G 


98  THE    MANAGER'S    PIG 

"  For  a  pig,  Sir  ?  "  exclaimed  the  author. 

"  Measure  him,"  said  Tinfoil,  not  condescending  to 
notice  the  astonishment  of  the  dramatist. 

"  But,  my  dear  Sir,  it  is  impossible  that " 

"  Sir  !  impossible  is  a  word  which  I  cannot  allow  in  my 
establishment.  By  this  time,  Sir,  you  ought  to  know  that 
my  will,  Sir,  is  sufficient  for  all  things,  Sir — that,  in  a 
word,  Sir,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  Napoleon  about  me,  Sir." 

We  must  admit  that  the  dramatist  ought  not  to  have 
forgotten  this  last  interesting  circumstance,  Mr  Tinfoil 
himself  very  frequently  recurring  to  it.  Indeed,  it  was 
only  an  hour  before  that  he  had  censured  the  charwoman 
for  having  squandered  a  whole  sack  of  sawdust  on  the  hall 
floor,  when  half  a  sack  was  the  allotted  quantity.  "  He,  Mr 
Tinfoil,  had  said  half  a  sack  ;  and  the  woman  knew,  or 
ought  to  know,  there  was  a  good  deal  of  Napoleon  about 
him  !  "     To  return  to  the  pig. 

"  Measure  him,  Sir,"  cried  Mr  Tinfoil,  the  deepening 
tones  growling  through  his  teeth,  and  his  finger  pointing 
still  more  emphatically  downwards  to  the  pig. 

"Why,"  observed  the  author,  "  if  it  could  be  measured, 
perhaps " 

"If  it  could!  Sir,"  and  Mr  Tinfoil,  when  at  all  ex- 
cited, trolled  the  monosyllable  with  peculiar  energy — u  Sir, 
I  wouldn't  give  a  straw  for  a  dramatist  who  couldn't 
measure  the  cholera-morbus." 

"Much  may  be  done  for  an  actor  by  measuring,"  re- 
marked the  dramatist,  gradually  falling  into  the  opinion  of 
his  employer. 

"  Everything,  Sir  !  Good  God !  what  might  I  not 
have  been  had  I  condescended  to  be  measured  ?  Human 
nature,  Sir — the  divine  and  glorious  characteristic  of  our 
common  being,  Sir — that  is  the  thing,  Sir — by  heavens  ! 
Sir,  when  I  think  of  that  great  creature,  Shakespeare,  Sir, 
and  think  that  he  never  measured  actors — no,  Sir " 


THE    MANAGER'S    PIG  99 

"  No,  Sir,"  acquiesced  the  dramatist. 

"  Notwithstanding,  Sir,  we  live  in  other  times,  Sir, 
and  you  must  write  a  part  for  the  pig,  Sir." 

"  Very  well,  Sir  ;  if  he  must  be  measured,  Sir,  he 
must,"  said  the  author. 

"  It  is  a  melancholy  thing  to  be  obliged  to  succumb  to 
the  folly  of  the  day,"  remarked  Mr  Tinfoil,  "and  yet, 
Sir,  I  could  name  certain  people,  Sir,  who,  by  heavens ! 
Sir,  would  not  have  a  part  to  their  backs,  Sir,  if  they  had 
not  been  measured  for  it,  Sir.  Let  me  see :  it  is  not 
three  o'clock — well,  some  time  to-night  you'll  let  me 
have  the  piece  for  the  pig,  Sir." 

Now  whether  the  writer  addressed  was  by  his  "  so 
potent  art "  enabled  to  measure  a  pig — to  write  a  perfect 
swinish  drama  in  a  few  hours — or  whether,  knowing  the 
Buonapartean  self-will  of  the  manager,  the  dramatist 
thought  it  wise  to  make  no  remonstrance,  we  cannot  truly 
discover :  certain  it  is,  with  no  objection  made,  he  took  his 
leave. 

"An  extraordinary  young  man,  Sir — I  have  brought 
him  out,  Sir — a  wonderful  young  man,  Sir,"  observed  Mr 
Tinfoil  to  a  friend  and  neighbour,  a  dealer  in  marine-stores. 
"  Only  wants  working,  Sir — requires  nothing  but  being 
kept  at  it,  Sir." 

"  Well,  it  must  be  a  puzzling  trade,"  remarked  the  dealer. 

"  Puzzling,  Sir  !  By  heavens  !  Sir,  my  heart  bleeds 
for  men  of  letters,  Sir — they  are  great  creatures,  Sir — 
wonderful  natures,  Sir — we  cannot  think  too  highly  of 
them,  Sir — cannot  sufficiently  reward  them,  Sir  !  Now, 
Sir,  it  is  perfectly  unknown  my  liberality  towards  that 
young  man  !  But  then,  Sir — it  is  my  delight,  Sir,  when 
I  find  real  genius,  Sir — when  I  meet  with  a  man  of 
original  mind,  Sir — by  heavens !  Sir,"  again  cried  Mr 
Tinfoil,  resorting  to  the  exclamation  as  an  outlet  for  his 
overcharged  feelings. 


ioo  THE    MANAGER'S    PIG 

The  pig  was  duly  measured — the  piece  prepared — and, 
having  been  produced  at  enormous  expense,  was  sealed  with 
the  unqualified  approbation  of  a  discerning  public. 

The  pig-drama  had  been  represented  -about  twenty  nights, 
when  the  author  of  the  piece,  in  friendly  converse  with  his 
patron  manager,  remarked  "that  the  porker  had  been  a 
most  profitable  venture." 

"Why,  Sir,"  replied  Mr  Tinfoil,  "tolerably  well;  but 
the  fact  is,  I  am  obliged  to  bolster  him.  He  has  had  the 
advantage  of  three  new  afterpieces,  and  therefore  can't 
complain  that  he  has  been  let  down.  Still,  the  pig  has 
done  very  well,  and  perhaps  may  run  a  fortnight  more." 
Saying  this  Tinfoil  quaffed  from  a  brimming  glass  of  his 
chosen  fluid. 

"  At  all  events,"  remarked  the  author,  "  the  pig 
possesses  one  advantage  not  to  be  found  in  any  other  of 
your  actors." 

"  And  what,  Sir,"  asked  Mr  Tinfoil,  "  what  may 
that  be  ? " 

"  Why,  after  the  pig  has  done  his  work,  and  the  piece 
is  put  by,  you  may  eat  the  pig." 

The  manager  started  from  the  inhuman  man  of  letters 
with  a  look  of  mingled  horror,  disgust  and  pity.  When 
he  had  somewhat  recovered  from  his  amazement  he  asked 
with  evident  loathing,  "What  did  you  say,  Sir?  " 

"  I  said,"  replied  the  insensible  author,  "that  when  the 
pig  had  played  out  his  part  you  might  eat  him  " 

Mr  Tinfoil,  gently  stirring  his  brandy-and-water,  fixed 
an  eye,  like  that  of  death-darting  cockatrice,  upon  the 
author,  and  after  swallowing  the  liquor,  and  thereby  some- 
what regaining  his  self-possession,  he  addressed  the  thought- 
less dramatist  in  words  and  tones  that,  as  he  has  since 
declared,  can  never  cease  to  vibrate  in  his  memory. 

"  Sir  !  "  thus  spoke  Mr  Tinfoil.  "  I  regret — much 
regret,    Sir,    that    anything    in    my   conduct    could   have 


THE    MANAGER'S    PIG  101 

induced  you,  Sir,  to  think  so  uncharitably  of  my  disposition, 
Sir." 

"  I  assure  you,  Sir " 

"  Hear  me  out,  Sir.  What,  Sir  !  think  me  capable  of 
feeding  upon  an  animal  that  I  have  played  with — a  creature, 
whose  sagacity  has  almost  made  it  my  humble  friend — a  pig 
that  has  eaten  from  my  hand — that  knows  my  voice — that 
I — I  eat  that  pig — good  heavens,  Sir  !  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  didn't  mean " 

"  No,  Sir,"  cried  Tinfoil,  "  not  were  I  starving,  Sir — not 
were  I  famishing,  Sir,  could  I  be  brought  to  taste  that  pig." 

Much  more  did  Mr  Tinfoil  deliver  declaratory  of  his 
horror  at  the  bare  idea  of  setting  his  teeth  in  the  flesh 
of  his  quadruped  actor,  and  the  rebuked  man  of  letters 
quitted  the  manager  with  an  exalted  notion  of  his  sensibility. 

The  pig-drama  continued  to  be  played  to  the  increasing 
satisfaction  of  the  public ;  the  audience,  however,  only 
being  admitted  to  view  the  professional  abilities  of  the 
animal ;  his  suppers — from  some  extraordinary  omission  of 
Tinfoil — not  being  eaten  before  the  curtain.  Great,  how- 
ever, as  was  the  success  of  the  pig,  at  about  the  fortieth 
night  his  prosperity  began  to  wane — he  was  withdrawn,  and 
passed  into  oblivion. 

A  few  weeks  had  elapsed,  and  the  author  was  summoned 
to  the  dwelling  of  his  manager,  to  write  a  play  for  a  stud 
of  horses.  Tinfoil  was  at  dinner,  whereto  he  courteously 
invited  his  household  scribe. 

"You  oughtn't  to  refuse,"  said  one  of  the  diners,  "for 
this,"  and  the  speaker  pointed  to  some  pickled  pork  in  the 
dish,  "this  is  an  old  friend  of  yours." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  the  dramatist,  looking  re- 
proachfully at  Tinfoil.      "  Why,  not  the  pig  ?  " 

Tinfoil  somewhat  abashed  coughed  and  nodded. 

"  Why,  you  said  that  nothing  on  earth  would  tempt  you 
to  eat  that  pig." 


102 


THE    MANAGER'S    PIG 


"No  more  it  could,  Sir,"  cried  the  assured  manager,  "no, 
Sir — no  more  it  could — unless  salted  !  " 

Of  how  many  applications  is  this  casuistry  of  the  manager 
susceptible  ? 

"When,  Sir,"  cried  the  pensioned  patriot,  "I  swore 
that  no  power  in  the  universal  world  could  make  me  accept 
a  favour  at  the  hands  of  such  men — I  meant " 

"  Unless  salted  /  " 

How  often  is  it  with  men's  principles,  as  with  the 
manager's  pig;   things  inviolable,  immutable — unless  salted P 


SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  A  STAGE  DEVIL 

The  "  principle  of  evil,"  as  commonly  embodied  in  the 
theatre,  has  been  a  sorry  affair  ;  the  stage  devil,  in  a  word, 
a  shabby  person.  From  the  time  of  the  mysteries  at 
Coventry  to  the  melodramas  of  the  phosphoric  pen  of  the 
blue-fire  dramatists,  the  father  of  iniquity  has  made  his 
appearance  in  a  manner  more  provocative  of  contempt  than 
of  peace ;  a  candidate  for  our  smiles,  rather  than  a  thing 
of  terrors ;  we  have  chuckled  where  we  should  have 
shuddered. 

That  the  stage  devil  should  have  been  so  commonplace 
an  individual,  when  there  were  devils  innumerable  where- 
from  an  admirable  selection  of  demons  might  be  "  constantly 
on  hand,"  made  it  the  more  inexcusable  on  the  part  of 
those  gentlemen  invested  with  the  power  of  administering 
to,  and  in  some  measure  forming,  public  taste.  What  a 
catalogue  of  devils  may  be  found  in  the  Fathers  !  Let  us 
particularise  a  few  from  the  thousand  of  demons  with 
which  the  benevolent  imaginations  of  our  ancestors  have 
peopled  the  air,  the  earth,  and  the  flood.  Poor  humanity 
stands  aghast  at  the  fearful  odds  of  spiritual  influences 
arrayed  against  it ;  for  it  is  the  fixed  opinion  of  Paracelsus, 
that  M  the  air   is   not  so  full  of  flies    in    summer   as  it  is 


io4  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF 

at  all  times  of  invisible  devils  "  ;  whilst  another  philosopher 
declares  that  there  is  "not  so  much  as  an  hairbreadth 
empty  in  earth  or  in  water,  above  or  under  the  earth !  " 
Cornelius  Agrippa  has  carefully  classified  devils,  making 
them  of  nine  orders.  The  first  are  the  false  Gods  adored 
at  Delphos  and  elsewhere  in  various  idols,  having  for  their 
captain  Beelzebub ;  the  second  rank  is  of  "  liars  and 
equivocators,"  as  Apollo — poor  Apollo  ! — "  and  the  like  "  ; 
the  third  are  "vessels  of  anger,  inventors  of  all  mischief," 
and  their  prince  is  Belial ;  the  fourth  are  malicious,  re- 
vengeful devils,  their  chief  being  Asmodeus ;  the  fifth 
are  cozeners,  such  as  belong  to  magicians  and  witches, 
their  prince  is  Satan ;  the  sixth  are  those  aerial  devils  that 
corrupt  the  air,  and  cause  plagues,  thunder,  fire,  and 
tempests — Meresin  is  their  prince ;  the  seventh  is  a  de- 
stroyer, captain  of  the  fairies  ;  the  eighth  is  an  accusing 
or  calumniating  devil ;  and  the  ninth  are  all  these  in 
several  kinds,  their  commander  being  Mammon.  Of  all 
these  infernal  creatures  Cornelius  Agrippa  writes,  with  the 
confidence  and  seeming  accuracy  of  a  man  favoured  with 
their  most  intimate  acquaintance. 

In  addition  to  these  we  have,  on  the  authority  of  grave 
philosophers,  legions  of  household  devils,  from  such  as 
"  commonly  work  by  blazing  stars,"  fire-drakes,  or  ignes 
fatui,  to  those  who  "  counterfeit  suns  and  moons,  and 
oftentimes  sit  on  ship  masts."  Their  common  place  of 
rendezvous,  when  unemployed,  is  Mount  Hecla.  Cardon, 
with  an  enviable  gravity,  declares  that  •«  his  father  had  an 
aerial  devil  bound  to  him  for  twenty  and  eight  years." 
Paracelsus  relates  many  stories,  all  authenticated,  of  she- 
devils,  "  that  have  lived  and  been  married  to  mortal  men, 
and  so  continued  for  certain  years  with  them,  and  after 
for  some  dislike  have  forsaken  them."  Olaus  Magnus — 
a  most  delightful  liar — has  a  narrative  of  "  one  Hotheius, 
a   king   of  Sweden,  that,  having  lost   his  company  as  he 


A    STAGE    DEVIL  105 

was  hunting  one  day,  met  with  these  water-nymphs  and 
fairies,  and  was  feasted  by  them  "  ;  and  Hector  Boethius 
of  "  Macbeth  and  Banquo,  two  Scottish  lords,  that,  as 
they  were  wandering  in  the  woods,  had  their  fortune  told 
them  by  three  strange  women  !  "  For  the  "good  people," 
the  wood-nymphs,  foliots,  fairies,  they  are,  on  the  best 
authority,  to  be  «seen  in  many  places  in  Germany,  "  where 
they  do  usually  walk  in  little  coats  some  two  feet  long." 
Subterranean  devils  are  divided  by  Olaus  Magnus  into  six 
companies  ;  they  commonly  haunt  mines,  "  and  the  metal- 
men  in  many  places  account  it  good  luck,  a  sign  of  treasure 
and  rich  ore,  when  they  see  them."  Georgius  Agricola 
(de  subterraneis  animantibus)  reckons  two  more  kinds,  "that 
are  clothed  after  the  manner  of  metal-men,  and  will  do 
their  work."  Their  office,  according  to  the  shrewd  guess 
of  certain  philosophers,  "is  to  keep  treasure  in  the  earth 
that  it  be  not  all  at  once  revealed." 

On  the  20th  of  June  1484,  it  is  upon  record  that  the 
devil  appeared  "at  Hamond,  in  Saxony,"  in  the  likeness 
of  a  field-piper,  and  carried  away  a  hundred  and  thirty 
children  "that  were  never  after  seen!"  I  might  fill 
folios  with  the  pranks  and  malicious  mummeries  of  the 
evil  spirit,  all,  too,  duly  attested  by  the  most  respectable 
witnesses,  but  shall  at  once  leave  the  demons  of  the 
philosophers  for  the  spirits  of  the  playmongers,  the  devils 
of  the  world  for  the  devils  of  the  stage. 

Why  is  it  that,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  your  stage  devil 
is  a  droll  rather  than  a  terrible  creature  ?  I  suspect  this 
arises  from  the  bravado  of  innate  wickedness.  We  en- 
deavour to  shirk  all  thoughts,  all  recollections  of  his 
horrible  attributes,  by  endowing  him  with  grotesque  pro- 
pensities. We  strive  to  laugh  ourselves  out  of  our  fears  : 
we  make  a  mountebank  of  what  is  in  truth  our  terror,  and 
resolutely  strive  to  grin  away  our  apprehensions.  Surely 
some  feeling  of  this   kind   must  be   at   the   bottom   of  all 


106  SOME    ACC]OUNT    OF 

our  ten  thousand  jokes  at  the  devil's  expense — of  the  glee 
and  enjoyment  with  which  the  devil  is  received  at  the 
theatre ;  where,  until  the  appearance  of  Mr  Wieland,  he 
had  been  but  a  commonplace  absurdity,  a  dull  repetition 
of  a  most  dull  joke. 

Wieland  has  evidently  studied  the  attributes  of  the  evil 
principle  ;  with  true  German  profundity,  he  has  taken 
their  length,  and  their  depth,  and  their  breadth,  he  has 
all  the  devil  at  his  very  finger  ends,  and  richly  deserves 
the  very  splendid  silver-gilt  horns  and  tail  (manufactured 
by  Rundell  and  Bridges)  presented  to  him  a  few  nights 
since  by  the  company  at  the  English  Opera-house ;  pre- 
sented with  a  speech  from  the  stage-manager,  which,  or 
I  have  been  grossly  misinformed,  drew  tears  from  the  eyes 
of  the  very  scene- shifters. 

Can  anybody  forget  Wieland's  devil  in  the  Daughter 
of  the  Danube  P  Never  was  there  a  more  dainty  bit  of 
infernal  nature.  It  lives  in  my  mind  like  one  of  Hoffman's 
tales,  a  realisation  of  the  hero  of  the  nightmare,  a  thing 
in  almost  horrible  affinity  with  human  passions.  How  he 
eyed  the  Naiades,  how  he  laughed  and  ogled,  and  faintingly 
approached,  then  wandered  round  the  object  of  his 
demoniacal  affections !  And  then  how  he  burst  into 
action !  How  he  sprang,  and  leapt,  and  whirled,  and, 
chuckling  at  his  own  invincible  nature,  spun  like  a  tee- 
totum at  the  sword  of  his  baffled  assailant !  And  then  his 
yawn  and  sneeze  !  There  was  absolute  poetry  in  them — 
the  very  highest  poetry  of  the  ludicrous :  a  fine  imagination 
to  produce  such  sounds  as  part  of  the  strange,  wild,  grotesque 
phantom — to  give  it  a  voice  that,  when  we  heard  it,  we 
felt  to  be  the  only  voice  such  a  thing  could  have.  There 
is  fine  truth  in  the  devils  of  Wieland.  We  feel  that 
they  live  and  have  their  being  in  the  realms  of  fancy ; 
they  are  not  stereotype  commonplaces,  but  most  rare  and 
delicate    monsters,    brought    from    the    air,    the    earth,   or 


A    STAGE    DEVIL  107 

the  flood  ;  and  wherever  they  are  from,  bearing  in  them 
the  finest  characteristics  of  their  mysterious  and  fantastic 
whereabouts. 

Wieland's  last  devil,  in  an  opera  bearing  his  fearful  name, 
is  not  altogether  so  dainty  a  fellow  as  his  elder  brother  of 
the  Danube,  whose  melancholy  so  endeared  him  to  our 
sympathies,  whose  lackadaisical  demeanour  so  won  upon 
our  human  weakness.  In  The  Devil's  Opera  the  hero  is 
more  of  the  pantomimist  than  of  the  thinking  creature ;  he 
is  not  contemplative,  but  all  for  action  ;  he  does  not,  like 
the  former  fiend,  retire  into  the  fastness  of  his  infernal  mind 
to  brood  on  love  and  fate,  but  is  incessantly  grinning,  leap- 
ing, tumbling  ;  hence  he  is  less  interesting  to  the  meditative 
part  of  the  audience,  though,  possibly,  more  attractive  to 
the  majority  of  playgoers,  who  seem  to  take  the  "evil 
principle  "  under  their  peculiar  patronage,  laughing,  shout- 
ing, and  hurrahing  at  every  scurvy  trick  played  by  it  on 
poor,  undefended  humanity  ;  though,  with  a  bold  aim  of 
genius  on  the  part  of  the  author,  the  devil,  in  the  opera,  is 
made  the  ally  of  love  and  virtue  against  blind  tyranny  and 
silly  superstition.  The  devil  is  changed,  bound,  the  bond- 
slave of  the  good  and  respectable  part  of  the  dramatis  per- 
sonae,  to  the  confusion  of  the  foolish  and  the  wicked.  This 
is  certainly  putting  the  "  evil  principle  "  to  the  very  first 
advantage.  The  best  triumph  of  the  highest  benevolence 
is,  undoubtedly,  to  turn  the  dominating  fiend  into  the  toiling 
vassal,  and  in  the  new  opera  this  glory  is  most  unequivocally 
achieved. 

To  Wieland  we  are  greatly  indebted  for  having  reformed 
the  "  infernal  powers  "  of  the  theatre  ;  for  having  rescued 
the  imp  of  the  stage  from  the  vulgar  commonplace  character 
in  which  he  has  too  long  distinguished  himself,  or,  I  ought 
rather  to  say,  exposed  himself;  for  there  was  no  mystery 
whatever  in  him  :  he  was  a  sign-post  devil,  a  miserable 
daub,  with  not  one  of  those  emanations  of  profound,  un- 


io8  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF 

earthly  thought — not  the  slightest  approach  to  that  delicacy 
of  colouring,  that  softening  of  light  into  shade,  and  shade 
into  light,  that  distinguish  the  devil  of  Wieland.  No  :  in 
him  we  have  the  foul  fiend  divested  of  all  his  vulgar, 
Bartlemy  Fair  attributes  ;  his  horns,  and  tail,  and  saucer- 
eyes,  and  fish-hook  nails,  are  the  least  part  of  him ;  they 
are  the  mere  accidents  of  his  nature,  not  his  nature  itself ; 
we  have  the  devil  in  the  abstract,  and  are  compelled  to 
receive  with  some  consideration  the  popular  and  charitable 
proverb  that  declares  him  to  be  not  quite  so  black  as 
limners  have  shadowed  him. 

By  the  rarest  accident  I  have  obtained  some  account  of 
the  birth  and  childhood  of  Wieland.  It  appears  that  he  is 
a  German  born,  being  the  youngest  of  six  sons  of  Hans 
Wieland,  a  poor  and  most  amiable  doll-maker,  a  citizen 
of  Hildesheim.  When  only  four  years  old  the  child  was 
lost  in  the  Hartz  Mountains,  whither  his  father  and  several 
neighbours  had  resorted  to  make  holiday.  The  child  had 
from  his  cradle  manifested  the  greatest  propensities  towards 
the  ludicrous  ;  it  was  his  delight  to  place  his  father's  dolls 
in  the  most  preposterous  positions,  doing  this  with  a  serious- 
ness, a  gravity,  in  strange  contrast  with  his  employment. 
It  was  plain  to  Professor  Teufelskopf,  a  frequent  visitor  at 
the  shop  of  old  Wieland,  employed  by  the  professor  on  toys 
that  are  yet  to  astound  the  world— being  no  other  than  a 
man  and  wife  and  four  children,  made  entirely  out  of  pear- 
tree,  and  yet  so  exquisitely  constructed,  as  to  be  enabled  to 
eat  and  drink,  cry,  and  pay  taxes,  with  a  punctuality  and 
propriety  not  surpassed  by  many  machines  of  flesh  and 
blood — I  say  it  was  the  opinion  of  Professor  Teufelskopf 
that  young  Wieland  was  destined  to  play  a  great  part  among 
men,  an  opinion  we  are  happy  to  say  nightly  illustrated  by 
the  interesting  subject  of  this  memoir.  We  have,  however, 
to  speak  of  his  adventures  when  only  four  years  old,  in  the 
Hartz   Mountains.      For    a    whole    month   was    the    child 


ASTAGEDEVIL  109 

missing,  to  the  agony  of  its  parents,  and  the  deep  regret  of 
all  the  citizens  of  Hildesheim,  with  whom  little  George 
was  an  especial  favourite.  The  mountains  were  overrun 
by  various  parties  in  search  of  the  unfortunate  little  vagrant, 
but  with  no  success.  It  was  plain  that  the  boy  had  been 
caught  away  by  some  spirit  of  the  mines  with  which  the 
marvellous  districts  abound,  or,  it  might  be,  carried  to  the 
very  height  of  the  Brockenberg,  by  the  king  of  the  moun- 
tains, to  be  his  page  and  cup-bearer.  The  gravest  folks  of 
the  Hildesheim  shook  their  heads,  and  more  than  two 
declared  that  they  never  thought  George  would  grow  up 
to  be  a  man — he  was  so  odd,  so  strange,  so  fantastic,  so 
unlike  any  other  child.  The  despair  of  Hans  Wieland 
was  fast  settling  into  deep  melancholy,  and  he  had  almost 
given  up  all  hope,  when,  as  he  sat  brooding  at  his  fireside 
one  autumn  night,  his  wife — she  had  quitted  him  not  a 
minute  to  go  upstairs — uttered  a  piercing  shriek.  Hans 
rushed  from  the  fireside,  and  in  an  instant  joined  his  wife, 
who,  speechless  with  delight  and  wonder,  pointed  to  the 
nook  in  the  chamber  where  little  George  was  wont  to  sleep, 
and  where,  at  the  time,  but  how  brought  there  was  never, 
never  known,  the  boy  lay  in  the  profoundest  slumber  ;  in 
all  things  the  same  plump,  good-looking  child,  save  that  his 
cheek  was  more  than  usually  flushed.  Hans  Wieland  and 
his  wife  fell  upon  their  knees  and  sobbed  thanksgivings. 

I  cannot  dwell  upon  the  effect  produced  by  this  mys- 
terious return  of  the  child  upon  the  people  of  Hildesheim. 
The  shop  of  Hans  Wieland  was  thronged  with  folks  anxious 
to  learn  from  the  child  himself  a  full  account  of  his  wan- 
derings, of  how  he  happened  to  stray  away,  of  what  he  had 
seen,  and  by  what  means  he  had  been  brought  back.  To 
all  these  questions,  though  on  other  points  a  most  docile 
infant,  George  maintained  the  most  dogged  silence,  several 
of  the  church  authorities,  half  a  dozen  professors,  nay,  the 
great  Teufelskopf  himself,  questioned  the  child  ;  but  all  in 


no  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF 

vain,  George  was  resolutely  dumb.  It  was  plain,  however, 
that  he  had  been  the  playfellow,  the  pet  of  supernatural 
beings ;  and  though  there  can  be  but  little  doubt  that  his 
friends  and  devils  as  shown  upon  the  stage  are  no  other 
than  faithful  copies  of  the  grotesque  originals  at  this  moment 
sporting  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Brockenberg,  Mr 
Wieland,  as  I  am  credibly  informed,  though  a  gentle  and 
amiable  person  in  other  respects,  is  apt  to  be  ruffled,  nay, 
violent,  if  impertinently  pressed  upon  the  subject  of  his 
early  wanderings.  When,  however,  we  reflect  upon  the 
great  advantages  obtained  by  Mr  Wieland  from  what  is 
now  to  be  considered  the  most  fortunate  accident  of  his 
childhood,  we  must  admit  that  there  is  somewhat  less  praise 
due  to  him  than  if  he  appeared  before  us  as  a  great  original. 
Since  I  have  commenced  this  paper,  I  have  been  informed 
by  Mr  Dullandry,  of  The  Wet  Blanket,  that  the  goblin  in 
The  Daughter  of  the  Danube,  a  touch  of  acting  in  which 
Mr  Wieland  gathered  a  wreath  of  red-hot  laurels,  is  by  no 
means  what  it  was  taken  for,  a  piece  of  fine  invention  on 
the  part  of  the  actor,  but  an  imitation,  a  most  servile  copy 
of  the  real  spirit  that  carried  George  away  from  his  father 
and  friends,  tempting  the  little  truant  with  a  handful  of  the 
most  delicious  black  cherries,  and  a  draught  of  kirschen- 
wasser.  That  every  gesture,  every  movement,  nay,  that 
the  leer  of  the  eye  and  the  "  villainous  hanging  of  the  nether 
lip,"  the  sneeze,  the  cough,  the  sigh,  the  lightning  speed,  the 

"  Infernal  beauty,  melancholy  grace," 

all  the  attributes  of  mind  and  body  of  that  most  delicate 
fiend  of  the  Brockenberg,  were  given  in  the  hobgoblin  of 
the  Danube.  Hence,  if  Mr  Wieland  be  not,  as  we  thought 
him,  a  great  original,  he  is  most  assuredly  the  first  of 
mimics,  and  has  turned  a  peril  of  his  childhood  to  a  golden 
purpose.  Dullandry  declares  upon  the  best  authority — 
doubtless  his  own — that  the  devil  of  the  Brockenberg,  when 


A    STAGE    DEVIL  m 

little  George  cried  to  go  home  to  his  father  and  mother, 
his  brother  and  sister,  would  solace  the  child  by  playing 
upon  a  diabolic  fiddle,  the  strings  of  wolf's  gut  and  the 
bow-string  from  the  snowy  hair  of  the  witch  of  the  Alps, 
dancing  the  while,  and  by  the  devilish  magic  of  the  music 
bringing  from  every  fissure  in  the  rocks,  every  cleft  in  the 
earth,  and  from  every  stream,  their  supernatural  intelligences 
to  caper  and  make  holiday,  for  the  especial  delight  of  the 
poor,  kidnapped  son  of  the  doll-maker  of  Hildesheim. 
If  this  be  true,  and  when  Dullandry  speaks  it  is  hard  to 
doubt,  his  words  being  pearls  without  speck  or  flaw — if 
this  be  true,  we  here  beg  leave  to  inform  Mr  Wieland  that 
from  this  minute  we  withdraw  from  him  a  great  part  of  that 
admiration  with  which  we  have  always  remembered  the 
spasmodic  twitch  of  his  elbow,  the  self-complacency  about 
his  eyes  and  jaws,  the  lofty  look  of  conscious  power,  the 
stamping  of  the  foot,  and  the  inexhaustible  energy  of  bow- 
ing which  marked  his  Devil  on  Ttvo  Sticks,  all  such  graces 
and  qualifications  being,  as  from  Dullandry,  it  now  appears, 
the  original  property  of  the  devil  of  the  Brockenberg.  How- 
ever, to  return  to  our  narrative,  which,  as  I  am  prepared  to 
show,  has  in  these  days  of  daring  speculation  the  inestim- 
able charm  of  truth  to  recommend  it  to  the  severest  attention 
of  my  readers. 

Little  George  remained  a  marvel  to  the  good  citizens  of 
Hildesheim,  few  of  whom,  for  certain  prudential  reasons, 
would  any  longer  permit  their  children  to  play  with  him ; 
fearing,  and  reasonably  enough,  some  evil  from  contact  with 
a  child  who  was  evidently  a  favourite  with  the  spirits  of  the 
Hartz  Mountains.  However,  this  resolution  had  no  effect  on 
George,  who  more  than  ever  indulged  in  solitary  rambles,  be- 
coming day  by  day  more  serious  and  taciturn.  His  little  head 
— as  Professor  Teufelskopf  sagaciously  observed — was  filled 
with  the  shapes  and  shadows  haunting  the  Brockenberg. 
Many  were  the  solicitations  made  by  Teufelskopf  and  rival 


ii2   ACCOUNT    OF    A    STAGE    DEVIL 

professors  to  Hans  Wieland,  to  be  permitted  to  take  little 
George  and  educate  him  for  a  philosopher,  an  alchemist,  in 
fact  for  anything  and  everything,  the  boy  displaying 
capacities,  as  all  declared,  only  to  be  found  in  an  infant 
Faust.  To  all  these  prayers  Hans  Wieland  was  deaf.  He 
resolved  to  bring  up  his  son  to  the  honest  and  useful  employ- 
ment of  doll-making ;  keeping,  if  possible,  his  head  from 
the  cobwebs  and  dust  of  the  schools,  and  making  him  a 
worthy  minister  to  the  simple  and  innocent  enjoyments  of 
baby  girls,1  rather  than  consenting  to  his  elevation  as  a 
puzzler  and  riddler  among  men.  Thus  our  hero,  denied  to 
the  scholastic  yearnings  of  the  great  Teufelskopf,  sat  at  home, 
articulating  the  joints  of  dolls,  and  helping  to  make  their 
eyes  open  and  shut,  when — had  his  father  the  true  worthy 
ambition  in  him — the  boy  would  have  been  inducted  into 
knowledge  that  might  have  given  him  supernatural  power 
over  living  flesh  and  blood,  bending  and  binding  it  to  his 
own  high,  philosophic  purposes.  Hans  Wieland,  however, 
was  a  simple,  honest  soul,  with  a  great,  and,  therefore, 
proper  sense  of  the  beauties  and  uses  of  the  art  of  doll- 
making.  Glad  also  am  I  to  state  that  little  George,  with  all 
his  dreaminess,  remained  a  most  dutiful,  sweet-tempered  boy ; 
and  might  be  seen,  seven  hours  at  least  out  of  the  twenty- 
four,  seated  on  a  three-legged  stool  fitting  the  arms  and 
legs  of  the  ligneous  hopes  of  the  little  girls  of  Hildesheim, 

1  One  of  the  most  touching  instances  of  the  "  maternal  instinct," 
as  it  has  been  called,  in  children,  came  under  my  notice  a  few- 
months  ago.  A  wretched  woman,  with  an  infant  in  her  arms, 
mother  and  child  in  very  tatters,  solicited  the  alms  of  a  nursery- 
maid passing  with  a  child,  clothed  in  the  most  luxurious  manner, 
hugging  a  large  wax  doll.  The  mother  followed  the  girl,  begging 
for  relief  "  to  get  bread  for  her  child,"  whilst  the  child  itself, 
gazing  at  the  treasure  in  the  arms  of  the  baby  of  prosperity,  cried, 
"  Mammy,  when  will  you  buy  me  a  doll  ?  "  I  have  met  with  few 
things  more  affecting  than  the  contrast  of  the  destitute  parent 
begging  her  bread  (the  misery  seemed  real)  and  the  beggar's 
child  begging  of  its  mother  for  a  "  doll !  " 


■Would  j-olei.ee  tK«.  cKiLd. 

by  pl&.yir>£  uj»or\  5k  dia/bolic  fiddle 


ACCOUNT    OF    A    STAGE    DEVIL    115 

his  thoughts,  it  may  be,  far,  far  away  with  the  fiddling 
goblin  of  the  Brockenberg,  making  holiday  with  the 
multitude  of  spirits  in  the  Hartz  Mountains. 

This  mental  abstraction  on  the  part  of  little  George  was 
but  too  often  forced  upon  the  observation  of  the  worthy 
Hans,  the  young  doll-maker  constantly  giving  the  looks  and 
limbs  of  hobgoblins  to  the  faces  and  bodies  of  dolls,  intended 
by  the  father  to  supply  the  demand  for  household  dolls  of 
the  same  staid  and  prudish  aspect,  of  the  same  proportion  of 
members,  as  the  dolls  that  had  for  two  hundred  years 
soothed  and  delighted  the  little  maidens  of  Hildesheim. 
It  is  a  fact  hitherto  unknown  in  England,  that  in  the 
Museum  of  Hildesheim — a  beautiful,  though  somewhat 
heavy  building  of  the  Saxon  order — there  are  either  eleven 
or  twelve  (I  think  twelve)  demon  dolls  made  by  young 
Wieland,  and  to  this  day  shown  to  the  curious — though  the 
circumstance  has,  strangely  enough,  remained  unnoticed  by 
the  writers  of  Guide  Books — as  faithful  portraits  of  the 
supernatural  inhabitants  of  the  Hartz  Mountains.  I  am 
told,  however,  that  within  the  last  three  years,  one  of  the 
figures  has  been  removed  into  a  separate  chamber,  and  is 
only  to  be  seen  by  an  express  order  from  the  town  council, 
in  consequence  of  its  lamentable  effects  on  the  nerves  of  a 
certain  German  princess,  who  was  so  overcome  by  the  ex- 
hibition, that  it  was  very  much  feared  by  the  whole  of  the 
principality — extending  in  territory  at  least  a  mile  and  a 
quarter,  and  containing  no  less  than  three  hundred  and 
twenty  subjects — the  territory  would  pass  to  a  younger 
brother,  or,  what  is  worse,  be  the  scene  of  a  frightful  revolu- 
tion, an  heir  direct  being  wanted  to  consolidate  the  dynasty. 
This  unfortunate  event,  though,  possibly,  fatal  to  the  future 
peace  of  the  said  principality,  is  nevertheless  a  striking  in- 
stance of  the  powerful  imagination  or  rather  of  the  retentive 
memory  of  the  young  Wieland.  The  doll,  like  all  the 
others,  is  a  true  copy  from  diabolic  life.     How  the  painful 


n6  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF 

story  attached  to  it  should  have  escaped  all  the  foreign 
correspondents  of  all  the  newspapers  is  a  matter  of  surpassing 
astonishment. 

We  have  now  arrived  at  an  important  change  in  the  life 
of  our  hero.  His  father  had  received  a  munificent  order 
for  three  dolls  from  Prince  Gotheoleog,  a  great  patron  of 
the  fine  arts  in  all  their  many  branches.  The  dolls  were 
intended  by  the  prince — he  was  the  best  and  most  indulgent 
of  fathers — as  presents  for  his  daughters ;  and,  therefore, 
no  pains,  no  cost,  were  to  be  spared  upon  them.  After  a 
lapse  of  three  months  the  order  was  completed ;  and  young 
Wieland,  then  in  his  seventh  year,  was  dressed  in  his  holiday 
suit,  and — the  dolls  being  carried  by  Peter  Shnicht,  an 
occasional  assistant  of  Hans  Wieland — he  took  his  way  to 
the  palace  of  the  prince.  It  was  about  half  past  twelve 
when  he  arrived  there,  and  the  weather  being  extremely 
sultry,  George  sat  down  upon  the  palace  steps  to  rest  and 
compose  himself  before  he  ventured  to  knock  at  the  gate. 
He  had  remained  there  but  a  short  time,  when  he  was 
addressed  by  a  tall,  majestic-looking  person  clothed  in  a 
huntsman's  suit,  and  carrying  a  double-barrel  gun,  a  weapon 
used  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Hildesheim  in  boar-shooting, 
who,  asking  our  hero  his  name  and  business,  was  struck  with 
the  extraordinary  readiness  of  the  boy's  answers,  and,  more 
than  all,  with  a  certain  look  of  diabolic  reverence  peeping  from 
his  eyes,  and  odd  smiles  playing  about  his  mouth.  The 
stranger  knocked  at  the  gate,  gave  his  gun  to  a  servant,  and 
bade  the  little  doll-maker  follow  the  domestic,  who  showed 
him  into  a  sumptuous  apartment.  The  reader  is  prepared 
to  find  in  the  man  with  the  gun  no  other  person  than  Prince 
Gotheoleog  himself,  who  in  a  few  minutes  reappeared  to 
George,  asked  him  in  the  most  condescending  manner 
various  questions  respecting  his  proficiency  in  reading  and 
writing,  and  finally  dismissed  him  with  ten  groschen  for  his 
extraordinary  intelligence.      Six   months   after  this  Prince 


A    STAGE    DEVIL  117 

Gotheoleog  was  appointed  ambassador  to  the  court  of  St 
James's,  and  young  Wieland  attended  him  in  the  humble, 
yet  most  honourable  capacity  of  page.  This  appointment 
Hans  Wieland,  in  his  simplicity,  believed  would  effectually 
win  his  romantic  son  from  his  errant  habits,  would  cure  him 
of  day-dreaming,  by  plunging  his  neck  deep  into  the  affairs 
of  this  world.  Alas !  it  had  precisely  the  reverse  effect 
upon  the  diplomatic  doll-maker.  From  the  moment  that 
he  found  himself  associated,  though  in  the  slightest  degree, 
with  politics,  the  latent  desire  to  play  the  devil  burst  forth 
with  inextinguishable  ardour.  A  sense  of  duty — a  filial 
regard  for  the  prejudices  of  his  father — did  for  a  time  re- 
strain him  from  throwing  up  his  very  lucrative  and  most 
promising  situation  in  the  household  of  Prince  Gotheoleog, 
and  kept  him  to  the  incessant  toil,  unmitigated  drudgery  of 
diplomatic  life  ;  but  having  one  luckless  night  gained  admis- 
sion into  the  gallery  of  the  House  of  Commons  on  the 
debate  of  a  certain  question,  to  which  I  shall  not  more 
particularly  allude,  and  there  having  seen  and  heard  a  certain 
member,  whose  name  I  shall  not  specify,  sway  and  convulse 
the  senate,  George  resolved  from  that  moment  to  play  the 
devil,  and  nothing  but  the  devil,  to  the  end  of  his  days. 
He  immediately  retired  to  Bellamy's,  and  penned  his  re- 
signation to  Prince  Gotheoleog,  trusting,  with  the  confidence 
of  true  genius,  to  fortune,  to  his  own  force  of  character, 
or,  what  is  more  likely,  without  once  thinking  of  the  means 
or  accidents,  to  obtain  the  end  of  his  indomitable  aspirations 
— an  appearance  as  the  devil.  Unrivalled  as  Wieland  is 
as  the  representative  of  the  fiend  in  all  his  thousand  shapes 
— to  be  sure  the  great  advantages  of  our  hero's  education  in 
the  Hartz  Mountains  are  not  to  be  forgotten — it  is  yet  to 
be  regretted  that  he  ever 

"To  the  playhouse  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind." 
It  is,  and  must  ever  be,  a  matter  of  sorrow  not  only  to  his 
best  wishers,  but  to  the  friends  of  the  world  at  large,  that 


n8  SOME    ACCOUNT    OF 

those  high  qualifications,  those  surpassing  powers  of  diabolic 
phlegm,  vivacity  and  impudence,  which  have  made  Mr 
Wieland's  devils  the  beau  Ideal  of  the  infernal,  had  not  been 
suffered  to  ripen  in  the  genial  clime  of  diplomacy.  In  the 
full  glow  of  my  admiration  of  his  diabolic  beauties — that  is, 
since  the  facts  above  narrated  have  been  in  my  possession — 
I  have  often  scarcely  suppressed  a  sigh  to  think  how  great 
an  ambassador  has  been  sacrificed  in  a  playhouse  fiend. 
Indeed,  nothing  can  be  more  truly  diplomatic  than  the 
supernatural  shifts  of  Wieland.  Had  he  acted  in  France, 
in  the  days  of  Napoleon,  he  had  been  kidnapped  from  the 
stage,  and,  nolens  volens,  made  a  plenipotentiary. 

It  is  a  painful  theme  to  dwell  upon  the  smugglings  of 
modest,  and,  consequently,  unsupported  genius.  Therefore 
I  shall,  at  least  for  the  present,  suppress  a  very  long  and 
minute  account  of  the  trials  that  beset  our  hero  in  his 
attempts  to  make  known  the  wonders  that  were  in  him. 
I  shall  not  relate  how  he  was  flouted  by  one  manager, 
snubbed  by  another,  derisively  smiled  upon  by  a  third  ; 
how,  at  length,  he  obtained  a  footing  in  a  theatre,  but  was 
condemned  to  act  the  minor  iniquities,  less  gifted  men  being 
promoted  to  play  the  devil  himself.  In  all  these  trials, 
however,  in  all  these  disappointments  and  occasional  heart- 
burnings, the  genius  of  our  hero  continued  to  ripen.  His 
horns  still  budded,  and  his  tail  gave  token  of  great  promise  ; 
and,  at  length,  he  burst  upon  the  town,  from  top  to  toe, 
intus  et  in  cute,  a  perfect  and  most  dainty  devil.  Great  as 
his  success  has  been,  I  should  not  have  thus  lengthily  dwelt 
upon  it,  were  I  not  convinced  of  its  future  increase.  There 
are  grand  mysteries  in  Wieland — part  of  his  infant  wander- 
ings in  the  Hartz — yet  to  be  revealed.  I  feel  certain  from 
the  demoniacal  variety  of  his  humour,  that  there  are  a  legion 
of  spirits,  fantastic  and  new,  yet  to  be  shown  to  us  ;  all  of 
them  the  old  acquaintance  of  our  hero's  babyhood,  all  from 
the  same  genuine  source  of  romance  as  his  Devil  on  Two 


A    STAGE    DEVIL  119 

Sticks,    his   Devil   of  the   Danube,    and    his    Devil   of  the 
Opera. 

Having  discussed  the  professional  merits  of  Mr  Wieland, 
the  reader  may  probably  feel  curious  respecting  the  private 
habits  of  a  man  so  distinguished  by  his  supernatural  emotions. 
I  am  enabled,  it  is  with  considerable  satisfaction  I  avow  it, 
to  satisfy  the  laudable  anxiety  of  the  reader,  and  from  the 
same  authentic  materials  that  have  supplied  the  principal 
part  of  this  notice. 

Mr  Wieland  is  a  gentleman  of  the  most  retired  and 
simple  manners.  After  the  severest  rehearsals  of  a  new 
devil  he  has  been  known  to  recreate  himself  in  the  enclosure 
of  St  James's  Park  ;  and  further,  to  illustrate  his  contem- 
plative and  benevolent  habits,  by  flinging  to  the  various 
water-fowl  in  the  canal — by-the-way,  in  imitation  of  a 
great  regal  authority — fragments  of  cake  and  biscuits.  His 
dress  is  of  the  plainest  kind,  being  commonly  a  snuff-coloured 
coat  buttoned  up  to  the  neck  ;  a  white  cravat,  drab  small- 
clothes, and  drab  knee-gaiters.  A  gold-headed  cane,  said 
to  have  been  in  the  possession  of  Cornelius  Agrippa,  is 
sometimes  in  his  hand.  He  is  occasionally  induced  to  take 
a  pinch  of  snuff,  but  was  never  seen  to  smoke.  His  face  is 
as  well  known  at  the  British  Museum  as  are  the  Elgin 
Marbles,  Mr  Wieland  having  for  some  years  been  employed 
on  a  new  edition  of  the  Talmud.  Although  a  German  Dy 
birth,  Mr  Wieland  speaks  English  with  remarkable  purity, 
having  had  the  advantage  of  early  instruction  in  our  language 
from  a  British  dramatist,  who,  driven  from  the  stage  by  the 
invasion  of  French  pieces,  sought  to  earn  his  precarious 
bread  as  a  journeyman  doll-maker  with  Mr  Wieland, 
senior.  We  could  enter  into  further  particulars,  but  shall 
commit  a  violence  upon  ourselves,  and  here  wind  up  what 
we  trust  will  henceforth  prove  a  model  for  all  stage 
biographers. 

The  inquiring  reader  may  possibly  desire  to  learn  how 


120  ACCOUNT    OF    A    STAGE    DEVIL 

we  became  possessed  of  the  valuable  documents  from  which 
the  above  narrative  is  gathered.  To  this  we  boldly  make 
answer  ;  we  blush  not,  while  we  avow,  that  our  dear  friend 
Dullandry  has  a  most  careless  habit  of  carrying  his  most 
valuable  communications  for  The  Wet  Blanket  in  his  coat 
pocket ;  and  that  only  on  Thursday  last  we  overtook  him, 
with  his  papers  peeping  from  their  sanctuary,  when — when, 
in  a  word,  the  temptation  was  too  much  for  us,  and  the 
consequence  is,  that  the  reader  has  "  some  account  of  a 
stage  devil." 

Why  should  all  dramatic  truths  be  confined  to  the  im- 
partial and  original  pages  of  The  Wet  Blanket  ? 


FIRESIDE  SAINTS 


ST    DOLLY 

At  an  early  age  St  Dolly  showed  the  sweetness  of  her 
nature  by  her  tender  love  for  her  widowed  father,  a  baker, 
dwelling  at  Pie  Corner,  with  a  large  family  of  little  children. 
It  chanced  that  with  bad  harvests  bread  became  so  dear 
that,  of  course,  bakers  were  ruined  by  high  prices.  The 
miller  fell  upon  Dolly's  father,  and  swept  the  shop  with  his 
golden  thumb.  Not  a  bed  was  left  for  the  baker  or  his 
little  ones.  St  Dolly  slept  upon  a  flour  sack,  having  prayed 
that  good  angels  would  help  her  to  help  her  father.  Now 
sleeping,  she  dreamt  that  the  oven  was  lighted,  and  she 
felt  falling  in  a  shower  about  her  raisins,  currants,  almonds, 
lemon  peel,  flour,  with  heavy  drops  of  brandy.  Then  in 
her  dreams  she  saw  the  fairies  gather  up  the  things  that  fell 
and  knead  them  into  a  cake.  They  put  the  cake  into  the 
oven,  and  dancing  round  and  round,  the  fairies  vanished, 
crying,  "  Draw  the  'cake,  Dolly — Dolly,  draw  the  cake  !  " 
And  Dolly  awoke  and  drew  the  cake,  and,  behold,  it  was 
the  first  twelfth  cake,  sugared  at  the  top,  and  bearing  the 


T22  FIRESIDE    SAINTS 

images  of  Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity.  Now  this  cake,  shown 
in  the  window,  came  to  the  king's  ear ;  and  the  king  bought 
the  cake,  knighted  the  baker,  and  married  Dolly  to  his 
grand  falconer,  to  whom  she  proved  a  faithful  and  loving 
wife,  bearing  him  a  baker's  dozen  of  lovely  children. 

ST    PATTY 

St  Patty  was  an  orphan,  and  dwelt  in  a  cot  with  a  sour 
old  aunt.  It  chanced,  it  being  bitter  cold,  that  three  hunters 
came  and  craved  for  meat  and  drink.  "  Pack !  "  said  the 
sour  aunt,  "  neither  meat  nor  drink  have  ye  here." 
"  Neither  meat  nor  drink,"  said  Patty  ;  "  but  something 
better."  And  she  ran  and  brought  some  milk,  some  eggs, 
and  some  flour,  and,  beating  them  up,  poured  the  batter  in 
the  pan.  Then  she  took  the  pan  and  tossed  the  cake  over  ; 
and  then  a  robin  alighted  at  the  window,  and  kept  singing 
these  words — One  good  turn  deserves  another.  And  Patty 
tossed  and  tossed  the  cakes  ;  and  the  hunters  ate  their  fill  and 
departed.  And  next  day  the  hunter-baron  came  in  state  to 
the  cot ;  and  trumpets  were  blown,  and  the  heralds  cried — 
One  good  turn  deserves  another  ;  in  token  whereof  Patty  be- 
came the  baron's  wife,  and  pancakes  were  eaten  on  Shrove 
Tuesday  ever  after. 

ST    NORAH 

St  Norah  was  a  poor  girl,  and  came  to  England  to  service. 
Sweet-tempered  and  gentle,  she  seemed  to  love  everything 
she  spoke  to.  And  she  prayed  to  St  Patrick  that  he  would 
give  her  a  good  gift  that  would  make  her  not  proud  but 
useful :  and  St  Patrick,  out  of  his  own  head,  taught 
St  Norah  how  to  boil  a  potato.  A  sad  thing,  and  to  be 
lamented,  that  the  secret  has  come  down  to  so  few. 

ST    BETSY 

St  Betsy  was  wedded  to  a  knight  who  sailed  with 
Raleigh  and  brought  home  tobacco  ;  and  the  knight  smoked. 


FI  RESIDE    SAINTS  123 

But  he  thought  that  St  Betsy,  like  other  fine  ladies  of  the 
court,  would  fain  that  he  should  smoke  out  of  doors,  nor 
taint  with  'bacco-smoke  the  tapestry.  Whereupon  the 
knight  would  seek  his  garden,  his  orchard,  and  in  any 
weather  smoke  sub  Jove.  Now  it  chanced  as  the  knight 
smoked  St  Betsy  came  to  him  and  said,  "  My  lord,  pray 
ye  come  into  the  house."  And  the  knight  went  with  St 
Betsy,  who  took  him  into  a  newly-cedared  room,  and  said, 
"  I  pray,  my  lord,  henceforth  smoke  here :  for  is  it  not  a 
shame  that  you,  who  are  the  foundation  and  the  prop  of 
your  house,  should  have  no  place  to  put  your  head  into 
and  smoke  ?  "  And  St  Betsy  led  him  to  a  chair,  and  with 
her  own  fingers  filled  him  a  pipe  ;  and  from  that  time  the 
knight  sat  in  the  cedar  chamber  and  smoked  his  weed. 

ST    PHILLIS 

St  Phillis  was  a  virgin  of  noble  parentage,  but  withal  as 
simple  as  any  shepherdess  of  curds  and  cream.  She 
married  a  wealthy  lord,  and  had  much  pin-money.  But 
when  other  ladies  wore  diamond  and  pearls,  St  Phillis  only 
wore  a  red  and  white  rose  in  her  hair.  Yet  her  pin- 
money  brought  the  best  of  jewellery  in  the  happy  eyes  of 
the  poor  about  her.  St  Phillis  was  rewarded.  She  lived 
until  fourscore,  and  still  carried  the  red  and  white  rose  in 
her  face,  and  left  their  fragrance  in  her  memory. 

ST    PHCEBE 

St  Phoebe  was  married  early  to  a  wilful,  but  withal  a 
good-hearted  husband.  He  was  a  merchant,  and  would 
come  home  sour  and  sullen  from  'change.  Whereupon, 
after  much  pondering,  St  Phoebe  in  her  patience  set  to 
work  and,  praying  the  while,  made  of  dyed  lambswool  a 
door-mat.  And  it  chanced  from  that  time,  that  never 
did   the   husband   touch   that   mat  that  it  didn't  clean  his 


i24  FIRESIDE    SAINTS 

temper  with  his  shoes,  and  he  sat  down  by  his  Phoebe  as 
mild  as  the  lamb  whose  wool  he  had  trod  upon.  Thus 
gentleness  may  make  miraculous  door-mats  ! 

ST    SALLY 

St  Sally,  from  her  childhood,  was  known  for  her  inner- 
most love  of  truth.  It  was  said  of  her  that  her  heart  was 
in  a  crystal  shrine,  and  all  the  world  might  see  it.  More- 
over, when  other  women  denied,  or  strove  to  hide  their  age, 
St  Sally  said,  "  I  am  five-and-thirty."  Whereupon  next 
birthday  St  Sally's  husband,  at  a  feast  of  all  their  friends, 
gave  her  a  necklace  of  six-and-thirty  opal  beads  ;  and  on 
every  birthday  added  a  bead,  until  the  beads  mounted  to 
four-score  and  one.  And  the  beads  seemed  to  act  as  a 
charm ;  for  St  Sally,  wearing  the  sum  of  her  age  about  her 
neck,  age  never  appeared  in  her  face.  Such,  in  the  olden 
time,  was  the  reward  of  simplicity  and  truth. 

ST    BECKY 

A  very  good  man  was  St  Becky's  husband,  but  with  his 
heart  a  little  too  much  in  his  bottle.  Port  wine — red  port 
wine — was  his  delight,  and  his  constant  cry  was — bee's- 
wing.  Now  as  he  sat  tipsy  in  his  arbour,  a  wasp  dropped 
into  his  glass,  and  the  wasp  was  swallowed,  stinging  the 
man  inwardly.  Doctors  crowded,  and  with  much  ado  the 
man's  life  was  saved.  Now  St  Becky  nursed  her  husband 
tenderly  to  health,  and  upbraided  him  not ;  but  she  said 
these  words,  and  they  reformed  him  : — "  My  dear,  take 
wine,  and  bless  your  heart  with  it — but  wine  in  moderation  : 
else,  never  forget  that  the  bee's  wing  of  to-day  becomes  the 
wasp's  sting  of  to-morrow." 

ST    LILY 

St  Lily  was  the  wife  of  a  poor  man,  who  tried  to  support 
his  family — and  the  children  were  many — by  writing  books. 


FI  RESIDE    SAINTS  125 

But  in  those  days  it  was  not  as  easy  for  a  man  to  find  a 
publisher  as  to  say  his  paternoster.  Many  were  the  books 
that  were  written  by  the  husband  of  St  Lily  ;  but  to  every 
book  St  Lily  gave  at  least  two  babes.  However,  blithe  as 
the  cricket  was  the  spirit  that  ruled  about  the  hearth  of  St 
Lily.  And  how  she  helped  her  helpmate !  She  smiled 
sunbeams  into  his  ink  bottle,  and  turned  his  goose  pen  to 
the  quill  of  a  dove  !  She  made  the  paper  he  wrote  on  as 
white  as  her  name,  and  as  fragrant  as  her  soul.  And  when 
folks  wondered  how  St  Lily  managed  so  lightly  with  fortune's 
troubles,  she  always  answered,  that  she  never  heeded  them, 
for  troubles  were  like  babies,  and  only  grew  the  bigger  by 
nursing. 

ST    FANNY 

St  Fanny  was  a  notable  housewife.  Her  house  was  a 
temple  of  neatness.  Kings  might  have  dined  upon  her 
staircase  !  Now  her  great  delight  was  to  provide  all  things 
comfortable  for  her  husband,  a  hard-working  merchant, 
much  abroad,  but  loving  his  home.  Now  one  night  he 
returned  tired  and  hungry,  and,  by  some  mischance,  there 
was  nothing  for  supper.  Shops  were  shut ;  and  great  was 
the  grief  of  St  Fanny.  Taking  off  a  bracelet  of  seed  pearl 
she  said,  "  I'd  give  this  ten  times  over  for  a  supper  for  my 
husband"  And  every  pearl  straightway  became  an  oyster, 
and  St  Fanny  opened — the  husband  ate — and  lo !  in  every 
oyster  was  a  pearl  as  big  as  a  hazel  nut  ;  and  so  was  St 
Fanny  made  rich  for  life. 

ST    FLORENCE    OR    ST    NIGHTINGALE 

St  Florence,  by  her  works,  had  her  lips  blessed  with 
comforting,  and  her  hands  touched  with  healing ;  and  she 
crossed  the  sea,  and  built  hospitals,  and  solaced,  and 
restored.  And  so  long  as  English  mistletoe  gathers 
beneath   it    truthful    hearts,    and    English    holly    brightens 


26 


FIRESIDE    SAINTS 


happy  eyes,  so  long  will  Englishmen,  at  home  or  abroad, 
on  land  or  on  the  wave — so  long,  in  memory  of  that  Eastern 
Christmas,  will  they  cry — God  bless  St  Florence  !  Bless  St 
Nightingale  ! 

ST    JENNY 

St  Jenny  was  wedded  to  a  very  poor  man  ;  they  had 
scarcely  bread  to  keep  them  ;  but  Jenny  was  of  so  sweet  a 
temper  that  even  want  bore  a  bright  face,  and  Jenny  always 
smiled.  In  the  worst  seasons  Jenny  would  spare  crumbs 
for  the  birds,  and  sugar  for  the  bees.  Now  it  so  happened 
that  one  autumn  a  storm  rent  their  cot  in  twenty  places 
apart ;  when,  behold,  between  the  joists,  from  the  basement 
to  the  roof,  there  was  nothing  but  honeycomb  and  honey — 
a  little  fortune  for  St  Jenny  and  her  husband,  in  honey. 
Now  some  said  it  was  the  bees,  but  more  declared  it  was 
the  sweet  temper  of  St  Jenny  that  had  filled  the  poor  man's 
house  with  honey. 


ficwt 


$3«?y 


CAT-ANDFIDDLE   MORALITIES 

The  Ta.le  of  aTtgcr 


For  fifteen  years  had  the  large  wooden  arm-chair  of  the 
Cat-and-Fiddle  been  consecrated  to  the  use  of  Captain 
Bam.  He  would  sit  in  it  as  it  were  a  throne  ;  and  the 
customary  guests  of  the  hostelry  paid  him  affectionate 
loyalty.  He  had  won  all  hearts  by  his  odd,  kind  ways  ; 
he  had  become  the  familiar  oracle  of  all  by  his  strange, 
yet  wise  sayings.  He  had,  too,  the  rare  and  happy  knack 
of  so  mixing  his  wisdom  with  his  drollery,  that  when  men 
laughed  and  swallowed  his  jest,  they  also,  like  children 
cheated  with  sweetened  physic,  swallowed  something  that 
in  proper  season  would  do  them  hearty  good.  And  then 
there  was  a  mystery  about  Captain  Bam  ;  and,  at  times, 
mystery  is  a  sort  of  sauce  to  human  character.  It  will  now 
and  then  give  a  strange  relish  to  what  without  it  would  be 
insipid  commonplace.  Not  that  it  was  so  with  Captain  Bam. 
Certainly  not;  but  the  mystery  was  this.  Fifteen  years 
before — on  a  sharp,  wintry  afternoon — he  crossed  the  thres- 
hold of  the  Cat-and-Fiddle.      He  carried  a  small  leathern 


128        THE    TALE    OF    A    TIGER 

pack,  and  appeared  otherwise  appointed  for  a  long  pilgrimage. 
It  was,  we  say,  sharp,  blighting  weather,  and  Captain  Bam 
called  hastily  for  a  mug  of  ale.  "  A  mug  of  ale,,  and 
directly,"  said  Captain  Bam,  "  for  I  can't  stop  a  minute." 
The  ale  was  brought,  and  the  Captain  hastily  took  a  long 
draught  thereof.  He  then  drew  his  breath,  and  a  smile  as 
from  the  very  roots  of  his  heart  broke  over  his  face,  and 
his  eye  strangely  glimmered  and  twinkled  upon  the  landlord. 
"  Eureka  ! "  said  Captain  Bam,  and  the  host  looked. 
"  Eureka  !  "  again  exclaimed  the  Captain.  "  Take  my 
pack,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  trembling  with  the  fulness  of 
satisfaction,  **  take  my  pack — I  will  rest  here." 

And  Captain  Bam — his  pack  removed — sank  in  the  large 
arm-chair.  It  seemed  that  his  travels  were  ended  ;  that,  in 
a  happy  moment,  he  had  accomplished  the  purpose  of  his 
life  ;  that  all  his  future  existence  would  be  an  appointed 
state  of  rest.  There  was  a  little  wooden  nook— a  sort  of 
summer-house,  at  the  end  of  a  long  garden — which,  after 
few  words,  he  hired  of  the  host ;  whence  every  night  he 
came  to  bestow  his  talk  upon  the  guests  of  the  Cat-and- 
Fiddle.  "  And  how  he  would  talk  !  Ha  !  better  than  a 
printed  book."  Such  was  the  oft  avowed  opinion  of  his 
gladdened  hearers.  And  now  the  Captain  is  dead.  His 
body  lies  in  the  churchyard  of  the  market  town,  but  two 
miles  distant  from  the  Cat-and-Fiddle.  He  had  himself 
written  his  epitaph.  It  is  a  model  of  brief  simplicity — 
enough  to  bring  a  blush  into  the  cheek  of  many  a  stone- 
faced  cherub.  The  epitaph  has  only  one  word  :  it  is  this  : 
"  Bam." 

The  Captain  died,  but  not  his  stories.  No ;  there  sat 
every  night  in  the  fireside  corner  of  the  Cat-and-Fiddle  an 
ardent,  passionate  lover  of  the  mind  of  Bam.  He  was  a 
silent  Pylades — a  mute  Pythias.  He  would  sit  and  store 
himself  with  the  syllables  of  Bam ;  then,  like  the  bee, 
would  he  fly  rejoicing  home,  and    ere   he  slept  hive  the 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TIGER         129 

wisdom  in  enduring  ink.  That  wisdom  is  now  before  us. 
The  little  vellum-bound  book,  its  pages  finely  written  as 
with  the  point  of  a  needle,  lies  upon  our  desk.  Upon  the 
forehead  of  its  title-page  there  are  these  words,  "  Cat-and- 
Fiddle  Moralities  "  ;  touchingly  recollectful  of  the  genial 
haunt  where  their  fine  wisdom  was  audible. 

There  are — no,  we  will  not  tell  the  number  of  stories 
enshrined  in  this  little  book.  But  from  time  to  time  we 
will  lay  one  before  the  reader,  in  what  we  believe  to  be  the 
very  words  of  Bam. 

Yes  :  we  will  begin  with  the  first.  Here  it  is — the  title 
beautifully  engrossed,  from  which  we  guess  the  legal 
yearnings  of  the  chronicler — here  it  is. 

THE  TALE  OF  A  TIGER 

Perhaps,  my  friends,  you  have  never  heard  of  a  place 
called  Singapore.  Well,  it's  no  matter  if  you  haven't.  It's 
a  long,  long  way  east,  where  all  sorts  of  shipping  trade,  and 
where  all  sorts  of  people  live — Chinamen,  Malays,  Javanese, 
Bengalees,  English,  Dutch,  and  whatnot.  Well,  there  was 
at  Singapore  a  certain  Dutch  family  in  the  pepper  trade. 
They  were  named  Vandervermin.  They  were  all  rich, 
cautious,  heavy  people  ;  all  save  Jacob  Vandervermin,  who 
when  a  mere  youth  was  left  a  poor  orphan  ;  left,  as  it  might 
have  seemed,  on  purpose  to  exercise  the  loving  benevolence 
of  prosperous  uncles  and  aunts,  and  flourishing  cousins. 
Alas  !  the  whole  body  of  the  Vandervermins  considered  the 
poverty  of  Jacob  as  a  blight — a  family  reproach  ;  a  nuisance 
that  every  one  sought  to  put  off  upon  the  other.  Jacob 
was  the  little  toe  of  clay  that  disgraced  the  Vandervermin 
body  of  brass.  And  what  made  him  worse,  he  was,  for 
one  with  Dutch  blood  in  his  veins,  a  sprightly,  frolicsome 
fellow.  He  was  a  beggar,  and  yet,  with  a  stony  hardness  of 
heart — as  Peter  Vandervermin,   the  head   of  the    family, 


130        THE    TALE    OF    A    TIGER 

declared — he  would  laugh  and  make  offensive  jokes  upon 
his  wretchedness.  There  are  men  who  cannot  understand 
a  joke,  simply  because  it  is  a  thing  that  carries  no  worth 
with  it  in  a  ledger.  Now- Peter  Vandervermin  received  a 
joke — especially  the  joke  of  a  poor  man — as  an  offence  to 
his  judgment  and  a  sidelong  sneer  at  his  pocket.  His  wife, 
Drusilla  Vandervermin,  was  of  the  same  belief;  and  in  this 
goodly  creed  man  and  wife  had  reared  a  numerous  family. 
Jacob  Vandervermin  was  the  only  outcast  of  the  name  who 
had  ever  disgraced  it  by  a  jest.  It  was  plain  he  would 
come  to  no  good  ;  plain  that  he  would  die  the  death  of 
a  sinner.  When  one  day  his  body  was  found  mortally 
mangled  by  a  tiger,  not  one  of  the  Vandervermins  was 
shocked  or  surprised.  No :  they  had  always  said  that 
something  dreadful  would  happen  to  him,  and  it  had  come 
about.  Jacob  was  buried — handsomely  buried.  Not  one 
of  the  Vandervermins  would  have  given  him  when  alive 
the  value  of  a  coffin  nail ;  but,  being  dead,  the  case  was 
altered.  The  pride  of  the  family  was  concerned  in  the 
funeral  ;  hence,  they  respected  themselves  in  their  treat- 
ment of  the  deceased.  Doubtless  the  ghost  of  a  de- 
spised, ill-used  relation  is  propitiated  by  a  costly  burial  ; 
and  thus  many  a  cousin  or  half-brother  who  has  glided 
through  life  in  a  cobweb  coat  has  superfine  cloth  upon 
his  coffin. 

I  had  this  history  of  Jacob  Vandervermin  from  a  China- 
man. He  repeated  it  to  me  with  the  eloquence  and  fervour 
of  a  believer.  The  Chinamen — at  least  the  sort  that  live 
at  Singapore — believe  that  when  the  tiger  kills  its  first  man, 
his  ghost  becomes  its  very  slave  ;  bound,  ordered  by  fate  to 
be  a  sort  of  jackal  to  the  tiger  ;  compelled  by  destiny  to 
find  the  beast  its  dinners,  even  among  his  kith  and  kin. 
Hence,  a  tiger  having  carried  off  one  of  a  family,  not  one  of 
the  survivors  is  from  that  moment  safe.  My  Chinaman — 
he  passed  for  a  very  learned  fellow  among  his  tribe — had 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TIGER         131 

the  most  intimate  knowledge  of  the  Vandervermin  tragedy, 
which,  after  his  own  lofty  fashion — painting  his  story  as 
though  he  was  painting  his  native  porcelain — he  related  to 
me.  I  shall  give  it  you  in  plain,  cold  English  ;  for,  my 
good  friends  all,  be  it  known  to  you,  I  scorn  the  flourish  of 
a  traveller. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen  Jacob  Vandervermin — having 
been  knocked  from  uncle  to  uncle,  the  poor,  passive  family 
shuttlecock — fell  at  length  into  the  counting-house  of  his 
richest,  and  oldest  uncle,  Peter.  For  two  years  did  Jacob 
eat  the  bread  of  dependence  ;  for  with  that  bitter  word 
was  his  bread  always  buttered — when  he  awakened  the 
inextinguishable  ire  of  his  rich  and  orderly  relative.  Jacob 
had  been  guilty  of  a  gross  wickedness  ;  in  fact,  of  a  crime, 
in  the  eyes  of  Peter  Vandervermin,  of  the  deepest  dye. 
He  had,  in  a  moment  of  culpable  neglect,  let  fall  a  large, 
unsightly  blot  of  ink  upon  his  uncle's  ledger.  To  the  mind 
of  Peter  Vandervermin,  his  graceless  nephew  had  thrown 
an  indelible  stain  upon  the  white  reputation  of  the  family  ; 
at  least  Peter  so  avenged  the  fault,  for  without  a  word  he 
seized  a  ruler  that  lay  upon  the  desk,  and  with  it  smote  the 
skull  of  the  blotting  offender.  Jacob  uttered  no  syllable  ; 
but  instantly  closing  the  ledger,  and  raising  it  with  both  his 
hands,  he  brought  down  the  book  of  figures  with  such 
precise  vehemence  upon  the  head  of  his  uncle,  that  the 
principal  of  the  house  of  Vandervermin  &  Co.  lay  stunned 
and  prostrate  on  the  floor  of  his  own  temple — that  is,  of 
his  own  counting-house. 

Now  Jacob  was  not  a  man  to  give  unnecessary  trouble. 
He  knew  that  if  he  remained  it  would  only  cause  his  uncle 
the  pain  and  the  perplexity  of  thrusting  him  from  the  house, 
and  therefore,  with  scarcely  a  penny  in  his  purse,  did  Jacob 
don  his  hat  and  cross  his  uncle's  threshold. 

Vain  was  it  for  him  to  beg  the  aid  of  any  of  the  name  of 
Vandervermin.     What,  he — a  poor  creature,  too,  a  pauper, 


132       THE    TALE    OF    A    TIGER 

a  beggar,  a — no,  there  was  no  worse  word  for  him — he  smite 
so  good,  so  tender  an  uncle !  No,  he  might  starve,  perish  ; 
it  would  be  to  share  his  wickedness  to  relieve  him.  It  was 
a  secret  comfort  to  the  Vandervermins  that  Jacob,  in  a 
momentary  forgetfulness,  had  knocked  down  his  uncle.  That 
sacrilegious  blow  had  for  ever  and  for  ever  snapped  the 
thousand  fine  ties  that — despite  of  his  previous  errors — still 
held  him  to  the  family  heart.  Now  he  might  perish  ;  and 
the  sooner  the  better.  The  only  hope  was  that  he  would 
be  drowned,  or  decently  starved  to  death  ;  that,  for  the 
sake  of  the  family,  he  would  not  come  to  be  hanged,  how- 
ever richly  he  deserved  it. 

For  some  weeks  Jacob  continued  to  live  without  money. 
Nothing,  perhaps,  so  eminently  shows  the  superiority,  the 
crowning  greatness  of  the  human  animal — a  fact  so  well 
attested  in  many  cases — as  the  power  of  man  to  subsist  for 
a  time  without  cash.  He  is  a  self-wonder  while  he  does 
it  ;  nevertheless,  the  miracle  is  performed.  Tear  a  plant 
up  by  the  roots — fling  it  aside — and  it  perishes.  Shut  a 
cat  up  in  an  empty,  mouseless  garret,  and  one  by  one  her 
nine  lives  will  go  out.  But  take  money  from  man — money, 
which  is  the  root  of  evil,  a  root  upon  which  man  best 
flourishes,  thereby  proving  the  wickedness  of  his  nature 
— and  still,  still  he  lives.  Perhaps,  somehow,  the 
carnivorous,  omnivorous  animal  becomes  an  air- plant,  and 
so  feeds  upon  the  atmosphere  about  him.  I  have  met 
with  many  air-plants  of  the  sort.  There  is  not  a  city, 
a  town,  without  them.  Such  men  get  over  days,  and 
weeks,  and  months,  and  wonder  how  they  have  so  success- 
fully travelled  thus  far  to  the  grave.  They  must  rub  their 
hands,  that  they  have  cheated  what  seemed  to  them  a  vital 
principle  of  nature. 

And  in  this  way  Jacob  Vandervermin  lived.  Every  day 
seemed  to  him  a  difficult  stepping-stone  to  get  over,  and  yet 
the  night  saw  him  on  the  other  side  of  it.      But  it  is  hard, 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TIGER        133 

miserable  work,  this  keeping  check  against  time  by  meals  in 
the  bowels  :  this  incessant  looking  for  butcher  and  baker 
as  the  allies  against  death,  and  wondering  and  trembling 
from  day  to  day,  lest  they  should  not  come  to  the 
rescue.  My  friends,  this  is  hard,  debasing  work — I  have 
known  it. 

One  day,  with  thoughts  heavy  as  lead  upon  his  brain,  did 
Jacob  Vander vermin  wander  forth.  He  wandered  and 
wandered,  until,  weary  and  spent,  he  sank  upon  the  stump 
of  a  tree  in  a  desolate  place.  "  How — how,"  cried  Jacob, 
"  shall  I  live  another  day  !  '• 

What  a  mole-eyed  thing  is  man  !  How  he  crucifies  him- 
self with  vain  thoughts — how  he  stands  upon  tiptoe,  straining 
his  eyestrings,  trying  to  look  into  the  future,  when  at  that 
moment  the  play  is  over — the  show  is  done. 

Jacob  had  scarcely  uttered — "  How  shall  I  live  another 
day  !  "  when  a  tiger,  a  royal  tiger — wherefore  a  cruel, 
treacherous,  bloodthirsty  beast  should  be  called  royal,  I 
know  not — when  a  royal  tiger — fell  like  a  thunderbolt  upon 
him. 

As  a  very  large  tom-cat  snaps  in  its  mouth  a  very  small 
mouse,  and  looking  statelily  around  seems  to  say — the  mouse 
kicking  all  the  while — "Pooh,  pooh;  why  this  is  noth- 
ing! "  so  did  the  royal  tiger  look  and  speak,  with  Jacob 
Vandervermin  writhing  and  screaming  in  its  jaw.  Well, 
tigers  make  short  work  of  men.  Almost  as  short  as  man 
himself  sometimes  makes  of  his  fellow  biped.  Jacob 
Vandervermin — it  was  his  luck  to  meet  with  a  benevolent 
tiger  ;  he  was  not  played  with  before  he  was  finally  crunched 
— Jacob  Vandervermin  was  soon  dead. 

And  now,  my  friends,  prepare  for  a  wonder !  Long 
before  the  tiger  had  picked  the  bones  of  Jacob — Jacob's 
ghost  stood,  like  a  waiting  footman,  meekly  behind  the 
dining  animal.  There  was  Jacob  in  his  wide,  parasol-like 
hat  of  straw— his  white  jacket  and  trousers,  in  all  things  the 


134        THE    TALE    OF    A    TIGER 

same  as  when  he  lived,  save  that  he  was  so  transparent  the 
eye  could  see  through  him  :  and  then  his  look  was  so  serene 
and  passionless  !  It  was  odd  to  see  how  meekly  the  ghost 
looked  on  the  while  the  tiger  gnawed  and  crunched,  and 
then  with  its  rasping  tongue  cleaned  the  bones  of  the  ghost's 
late  body.  It  was  plain  that  the  ghost  cared  no  more  for 
what  he  once  thought  the  most  valuable  thing  under 
heaven,  than  if  it  were  an  old  threadbare  coat,  put  aside  for 
a  glorious  garment.  Thus,  after  a  few  minutes,  the  ghost 
seated  itself  upon  the  stump  of  the  tree — where,  a  short 
time  before,  it  had  sat  in  the  flesh — and  twiddling  its  thumbs, 
looked  composedly  about  it.  And  when  the  tiger  had 
finished  Jacob — for  the  poor  animal  had  not  for  a  week 
before  tasted  so  much  as  a  field  mouse — it  stalked  away  to 
its  den,  the  ghost  of  Jacob  following  it. 

Gorged  to  the  whiskers,  almost  for  two  whole  days 
did  the  tiger  sleep.  And  then  rising  and  stretching 
itself — like  a  Mogul  after  a  debauch — the  tiger  said, 
"Jacob!  " 

"  What  wills  my  lord?  "  answered  Jacob's  ghost. 

"  Jacob,  I  must  sup  :  something  nice,  now — something 
delicate.  I  don't  like  to  say  it  to  your  face,  Jacob,  but 
you  haven't  quite  agreed  with  me.  I  could  fancy  some- 
thing mild  and  tender  to-night." 

For  a  moment  the  ghost  was  thoughtful ;  then  observed, 
"  What  says  my  lord  to  a  nice  sugar-cane  salad  ? " 

The  tiger  leered  somewhat  pityingly  at  the  ghost ;  then 
saying  "  Look  here  !  "  opened  its  jaws.  Even  the  ghost  of 
Jacob  shivered — like  moonlight  upon  water — at  the  dreadful 
array  of  teeth.  "  Think  you,"  said  the  tiger,  u  such  teeth 
were  made  for  salads  ?  " 

"  Tigers,  I  have  heard,  were  not  always  flesh-eaters,"  said 
the  ghost,  a  little  boldly. 

c*  Why,  there  is  a  story  among  tigers,"  answered  the  in- 
genuous brute,  "  that  at  one  time — but  it's  a  long  time  ago — 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TIGER 


'35 


Alnwt  for  two  wKoIe  d»ys  d'\d  tfs«.  Vgt*-  xk*p 


we  used  to  crop  clover  and  trefoil  and  wild  thyme,  for  all 
the  world  like  foolish  little  lambs.  And  then  suddenly — 
but  how  it  came  about  I  never  heard — we  took  to  eating 
the  kids  and  lambkins  that  before  we  played  with.  How 
the  change  began,  and  who  took  to  killing  first,  I  know 
not :  I  have  only  heard  it  wasn't  tigers ;  and  now,  I  only 
know  that  I  must  sup :  that  this  very  night  I  must  have 
another  Vandervermin.  Have  you  any  babies  in  the 
house  ? " 

M  None :  I  assure  you,  my  lord,  not  one,"  answered  the 
ghost. 

"  That's  a  pity,"  said  the  tiger,  "  for  I  feel  it,  my  stomach 
needs  something  tender  and  succulent.  However,  lead  on  : 
air  and  exercise  may  tone  my  vitals  a  little.  Why  do  you 
tarry,  sirrah  ?  " — and  the  tiger  growled  like  a  stage  tyrant — 
"you  know  your  destiny;  lead  on." 

The  ghost  seemed  to  feel  the  truthful  force  of  the 
rebuke,  and   immediately  led  the  way.     As   they  walked 


136        THE    TALE    OF    A    TIGER 

on,  the  ghost  espied  a  remarkably  fine  ox,  strayed  from 
a  neighbouring  farm.  "  See,  my  lord,  see  !  "  cried  the 
shadow. 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  tiger,  a  little  contemptuously.  "  I 
can't  do  that  sort  of  thing  now :  having  once  tasted  the 
goodness  of  man,  I  must  go  on  with  him.  No,  no  ;  I  thank 
my  luck  I  now  know  what  good  living  really  is."  And  then 
the  tiger  paused,  and  twisting  its  tail  gracefully  about  its 
legs,  as  sometimes  an  ingenuous  maid  will  twist  about  a 
gown  flounce,  the  brute  observed — "  What  a  lovely  night ! 
How  the  air  freshens  one's  spirits !  What  a  beautiful 
moon — and  how  the  stars  shine — and  the  airs  whisper 
among  the  tamarind  trees,  like  unseen  fairies  making 
love  !  You  are  sure,  Jacob,  there  is  not  a  baby  in  the 
house?  " 

"  Nothing  like  it,  my  lord,"  answered  Jacob. 

"  What  is  the  best  you  can  promise  me  ?  "  asked  the 
tiger. 

"  To-night,  I'm  afraid  nothing  better  than  Drusilla,  my 
aunt,"  said  the  ghost.  The  tiger  growled  dubiously  ;  and 
then  said,  "  Well,  we  can  but  look  at  her.  You  know  the 
safest  way — so  mind  what  you're  about." 

Cautiously,  stealthily,  goaded  by  fate,  did  the  ghost  of 
Jacob  lead  the  tiger  to  the  mansion  of  Peter  Vandervermin. 
Leaping  a  low  wall,  they  gained  a  garden,  and  proceeded 
along  a  winding  walk,  until  they  came  to  a  pretty  little 
summer  pavilion,  wherein  sat  aunt  Drusilla,  as  was  her 
wont,  knitting,  with  a  large  Dutch  pug  at  her  feet. 

"  There's  your  supper,"  said  Jacob,  pointing  to  the 
withered  old  gentlewoman. 

"  Humph !  "  growled  the  tiger,  and  angrily  twitched  its 
tail — "  humph  !      It's  against  my  stomach  ;   I  can't  do  it." 

"What  think  you,"  urged  the  ghost,  "of  the  pug  just 
for  a  snack  ?  " 

The  tiger  curled  its  whiskers  with  a  look  of  disgust,  and 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TIGER        137 

growling  "  dropsical, "  turned  supperless  away.  And  all  the 
next  night  did  the  tiger  fast.  But  sweet  is  the  sauce  of 
hunger  ;  for  on  the  third  evening  the  tiger  rose  and 
stretched  itself,  and  its  eyes  glared  with  brightening  flame 
as  it  said — "  Come  along,  Jacob :  I  don't  know  that  the 
old  woman  will  eat  badly  after  all." 

Jacob  again  conducted  the  destroyer  to  the  house. 
Again  showed  Drusilla,  unconscious  of  her  fate,  knitting, 
knitting.  There  was  a  slight  growl — a  spring — an  old 
woman's  scream — a  yap,  yap  from  the  pug — and  then 
the  wall  was  leapt — and  Peter  Vandervermin  was  a 
widower. 

I  will  not  follow  the  tiger  to  its  banquet.  Suffice  it  to 
say,  the  tiger  ate  and  slept.  However,  very  ill  and  feverish 
did  the  tiger  awake  in  the  morning.  "  Jacob,"  cried  the 
tiger,  "  what's  the  matter  with  me  ?  Phew  !  I  can  hardly 
move." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Jacob,  "  my  lord  has  just  a  stitch  in  his 
side." 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  tiger,  "  I  feel  'em  now ;  it's  that 
abominable  old  woman's  knitting  needles." 

"  Every  rose  has  its  thorn,  my  lord,"  said  the  ghost, 
joking  as  a  ghost  may  be  supposed  to  joke.  "  You  never 
find  a  woman  without  pins  and  needles." 

"  Jacob,"  cried  the  tiger,  "  either  you  come  of  a  very  bad 
family,  or,  after  all,  man-eating  is  by  no  means  so  whole- 
some— however  pleasant  it  may  be — as  a  hearty,  simple 
meal  off  a  buffalo,  a  deer,  or  anything  of  that  sort." 

"  Then  why,  my  lord,"  urged  the  ghost,  "  why  not 
return  to  the  humbler  diet?" 

II  That's  all  very  well,  Jacob.  Why  don't  men — with  red 
noses  and  no  insides — turn  from  arrack  and  new  rum,  and 
drink  only  at  the  diamond  spring  ?  I  begin  to  feel  myself 
no  better  than  a  drunkard  :  yes,  I  fear  I'm  a  lost  tiger.  It's 
very  nice — very  delicious  to  eat  a  man  at  night — but  it's 


138        THE    TALE    OF    A    TIGER 

like  what  I've  heard  of  drink — what  a  headache  it  leaves  in 
the  morning  !  Ha  !  "  cried  the  beast,  "  I'm  afraid  I'm 
making  quite  a  man  of  myself.  Look  at  my  tongue, 
Jacob ;  it's  as  hard  and  as  dry,  you  might  grind  an 
axe  upon  it.  Oh,  that  dreadful  old  woman  !  " — and 
the  tiger  closed  its  heavy,  bloodshot  eyes,  and  tried  to 
sleep. 

Only  three  days  past,  and  then  the  tiger  leapt  up,  and 
licking  itself  all  over — as  though  it  was  going  out  to  an 
evening  party,  and  wished  to  put  the  very  best  gloss  upon 
its  coat — the  creature  cried — "  Come  away,  Jacob  ;  I  must 
have  another  Vandervermin." 

"  Oh,  my  lord,"  cried  the  ghost,  "  think  what  you'll 
suffer  in  the  morning." 

"  That  for  the  morning,"  cried  the  tiger,  whisking  its 
tail — "  I  tell  you,  Jacob,  I  intend  to  make  a  night  of  it. 
Slave,  lead  on." 

And  thus  for  three  months,  conducted  by  the  fate- 
enforced  ghost,  did  the  tiger  continue  to  sup  off  Vander- 
vermins.  Uncles  and  aunts,  cousins  male  and  female,  in 
all  eight,  had  the  tiger  devoured,  when  one  night  the  brute 
carried  off  the  ninth  and  last  victim  in  the  person  of  Justus 
Vandervermin,  lawyer  and  usurer.  The  tiger — strange  to 
say — devoured  every  bit  of  him  ;  but  it  was  the  brute's  last 
morsel ;  it  never  could  digest  him.  Justus  Vandervermin 
remained,  like  so  much  india-rubber,  in  the  vitals  of  the 
tiger.      Nothing  could  stir  the  lawyer. 

"  Jacob,"  cried  the  brute,  feeling  its  last  hour  approach. 
"  I  shall  die,  and  your  ghost  will  be  at  rest.  I  forgive 
you — but  why — why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  Justus  was  a 
lawyer  ?  " 

And  with  these  words  the  tiger  died,  and  the  ghost  of 
Jacob  Vandervermin  was  instantly  at  peace. 

"  And  if  all  this  story  isn't  true,  Captain  " — asked  one  of 


THE    TALE    OF    A    TIGER         139 

the    Cat-and-Fiddle    company — "  what    do    you    get    out 
of  it?" 

"Why,  true  or  not,  this  much,"  answered  Captain  Bam  ; 
"never  to  neglect  and  ill-use  a  poor  relation.  For  however 
low  and  helpless  he  may  seem,  the  day  may  come  when  he 
shall  have  about  him  the  strength  of  a  tiger." 


A  GOSSIP  AT   RECULVERS 

The  spirit  of  the  Saxon  seems  still  to  linger  along  the 
shores  of  Kent.  There  is  the  air  of  antiquity  about 
them ;  a  something  breathing  of  the  olden  day — an 
influence,  surviving  all  the  changes  of  time,  all  the 
vicissitudes  of  politic  and  social  life.  The  genius  of 
the  Heptarchy  comes  closer  upon  us  from  the  realm 
of  shadows ;  the  Wittenagemote  is  not  a  convocation 
of  ghosts — not  a  venerable  House  of  Mists  ;  but  a  living, 
talking,  voting  Parliament.  We  feel  a  something  old, 
strong,  stubborn,  hearty  ;  a  something  for  the  intense 
meaning  of  which  we  have  no  other  word  than  "  English  " 
rising  about  us  from  every  rood  of  Kent.  And  where- 
fore this  ?  England  was  not  made  piecemeal.  Her 
foundations  in  the  deep — could  a  sea  of  molten  gold 
purchase  the  worth  of  her  surrounding  ocean  ? — are  of 
the  same  age.  The  same  sun  has  risen  and  set  upon 
the  whole  island.  Wherefore,  then,  is  Kent  predominant 
in  the  mind  for  qualities  which  the  mind  denies  to  other 
counties  ?  Because  it  is  still  invested  with  the  poetry 
of  action.  Because  we  feel  that  Kent  was  the  cradle 
of  the  marrow  and  bone  of  England  ;  because  we  still  see, 
ay,  as  palpably  as  we  behold  yonder  trail  of  ebon  smoke 
i4o 


A    GOSSIP    AT    RECULVERS      141 

— the  broad  black  pennant  of  that  mighty  admiral,  Steam 
— the  sails  of  Caesar  threatening  Kent,  and  Kent  bar- 
barians clustering  on  the  shore,  defying  him.  It  is  thus 
that  the  spirit  of  past  deeds  survives  immortally,  and 
works  upon  the  future :  it  is  thus  we  are  indissolubly 
linked  to  the  memories  of  the  bygone  day  by  the  still 
active  soul  that  once  informed  it. 

How  rich  in  thoughts  —  how  fertile  in  fancies  that 
quicken  the  brain  and  dally  with  the  heart,  is  every  foot- 
pace of  the  soil !  Reader,  be  with  us  for  a  brief  time  at 
this  beautiful  village  of  Heme.  The  sky  is  sullen  ;  and 
summer,  like  a  fine  yet  froward  wench,  smiles  now  and 
then,  now  frowns  the  blacker  for  the  passing  brightness : 
nevertheless,  summer  in  her  worst  mood  cannot  spoil  the 
beautiful  features  of  this  demure,  this  antique  village. 
It  seems  a  very  nest — warm  and  snug,  and  green — for 
human  life ;  with  the  twilight  haze  of  time  about  it, 
almost  consecrating  it  from  the  aching  hopes  and  feverish 
expectations  of  the  present.  Who  would  think  that  the 
bray  and  roar  of  multitudinous  London  sounded  but  some 
sixty  miles  away  ?  The  church  stands  peacefully,  rever- 
ently, like  some  old  visionary  monk,  his  feet  on  earth — 
his  thoughts  with  God.  And  the  graves  are  all  about ; 
and  things  of  peace  and  gentleness,  like  folded  sheep,  are 
gathered  round  it. 

There  is  a  stile  which  man  might  make  the  throne  of 
solemn  thought — his  pregnant  matter,  the  peasant  bones 
that  lie  beneath.  And  on  the  other  side,  a  park,  teeming 
with  beauty  ;  with  sward  green  as  emeralds,  and  soft  as 
a  mole's  back  ;  and  trees,  with  centuries  circulating  in  their 
gnarled  massiveness. 

But  we  must  quit  the  churchyard,  and  turning  to  the 
right,  we  will  stroll  towards  Reculvers.  How  rich  the 
swelling  meadows  !  How  their  green  breasts  heave  with 
conceived   fertility !      And   on    this    side    corn-fields ;    the 


i42     A    GOSSIP    AT    RECULVERS 

grain  stalk  thick  as  a  reed  ;  the  crop  level  and  compact 
as  a  green  bank.  And  here,  too,  is  a  field  of  canary  seed : 
of  seed  grown  for  London  birds  in  London  cages.  The 
farmer  shoots  the  sparrow — the  little  rustic  scoundrel — that 
with  felonious  bill  would  carry  away  one  grain  sown  for, 
made  sacred  to,  Portman  Square  canary !  We  might, 
perhaps,  find  a  higher  parallel  to  this  did  we  look  with 
curious  eyes  about  us.  Nevertheless,  bumpkin  sparrow  has 
his  world  of  air  to  range  in  ;  his  free  loves  ;  and  for  his 
nest  his  ivied  wall  or  hawthorn  bush.  These,  say  the 
worst,  are  a  happy  set-off  even  against  a  gilt-wired  cage  ; 
sand  like  diamond  dust ;  unfailing  seed,  and  sugar  from  even 
the  sweeter  lips  of  lady  mistress.  Powder  and  small  shot 
may  come  upon  the  sparrow  like  apoplexy  upon  an  alderman, 
with  the  unbolted  morsel  in  its  gullet ;  yet,  consider — hath 
the  canary  no  danger  to  encounter  ?  Doth  not  prosperity 
keep  a  cat  \ 

Well,  this  idle  gossip  has  brought  us  within  a  short 
distance  of  Reculvers.  Here — so  goes  the  hoary  legend — 
Augustine  impressed  the  first  Christian  foot  upon  the  English 
shore,  sent  hither  by  good  Pope  Gregory  ;  no  less  good  that, 
if  the  same  legend  be  true,  he  had  a  subtle  sense  of  a  joke. 
Christianity,  unless  historians  say  what  is  not,  owes  some- 
what of  its  introduction  into  heathen  England  to  a  pun. 
The  story  is  so  old  that  there  is  not  a  schoolmaster's  dog 
throughout  merry  Britain  that  could  not  bark  it.  Neverthe- 
less, we  will  indicate  our  moral  courage  by  repeating  it.  Our 
ink  turns  red  with  blushes  at  the  thought — no  matter — for 
once  we  will  write  in  our  blushes. 

Pope  Gregory,  seeing  some  white-haired,  pink-cheeked 
boys  for  sale  in  the  Roman  slave-market,  asked  who  they 
were  ?  Sunt  Angll — they  are  English,  was  the  response. 
Non  sunt  Angh — sed  Angeli ;  they  are  not  English,  but 
angels,  was  trie  Papal  playfulness.  His  Holiness  then 
inquired    from    what    part   of   England.     Deirii,  they  are 


SuC3\r  from  ever\  ^c.  Sweater  lips  of  L»<3y  tr\istre*rs 


OFTHE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 
FORt^J 


A    GOSSIP    AT    RECULVERS      .45 

Deirians,  was  the  answer.  Whereupon  the  pope,  following 
up  his  vein  of  pleasantry,  said,  Non  Deirii,  sed  De  ira — not 
Deirians,  but  from  the  anger  of  the  Lord :  snatched,  as  his 
Holiness  indicated,  from  the  vengeance  that  must  always 
light  upon  heathenism. 

This  grey-haired  story,  like  the  grey  hairs  of  Nestor,  is 
pregnant  with  practical  wisdom.  Let  us  imagine  Pope 
Gregory  to  have  been  a  dull  man  ;  even  for  a  pope  a  dull 
man.  Let  us  allow  that  his  mind  had  not  been  sufficiently 
comprehensive  to  take  within  its  circle  the  scattered  lights 
of  intelligence,  which,  brought  into  a  focus,  make  a  joke. 
Suppose,  in  a  word,  that  the  pope  had  had  no  ear  for  a 
pun  ?  Saint  Augustine  might  still  have  watched  the  bubbles 
upon  Tiber,  and  never  have  been  sea-sick  on  his  English 
voyage. 

What  does  this  prove  ?  What  does  this  incident  preach 
with  a  thunder-tongue?  Why,  the  necessity,  the  vital 
necessity,  of  advancing  no  man  to  any  sort  of  dignity,  who 
is  not  all  alive  as  an  eel  to  a  joke.  We  are  convinced  of 
it.  The  world  will  never  be  properly  ruled,  until  jests 
entirely  supersede  the  authority  of  Acts  of  Parliament. 
As  it  is,  the  Acts  are  too  frequently  the  jests,  without  the 
fun. 

We  are  now  close  to  Reculvers.  There,  reader,  there 
— where  you  see  that  wave  leaping  up  to  kiss  that  big  white 
stone — that  is  the  very  spot  where  Saint  Augustine  put 
down  the  sole  of  his  Catholic  foot.  If  it  be  not,  we  have 
been  misinformed  and  cheated  of  our  money  ;  we  can  say 
no  more. 

Never  mind  the  spot.  Is  there  not  a  glory  lighting  up 
the  whole  beach?  Is  not  every  wave  of  silver — every 
little  stone,  a  shining  crystal  ?  Doth  not  the  air  vibrate 
with  harmonies,  strangely  winding  into  the  heart,  and 
awakening  the  brain  !  Are  we  not  under  the  spell  of  the 
imagination  which  makes  the  present  vulgarity  melt  away 

K 


146     A   GOSSIP    AT    RECULVERS 

like  morning  mists,  and  shows  to  us  the  full,  uplighted  glory 
of  the  past  ? 

There  was  a  landing  on  the  Sussex  Coast ;  a  landing  of 
a  Duke  of  Normandy,  and  a  horde  of  armed  cut-throats. 
Looking  at  them  even  through  the  distance  of  some  eight 
hundred  years,  what  are  they  but  as  a  gang  of  burglars  ? 
A  band  of  pick-purses — blood-shedders — robbers  ! 

What  was  this  landing  of  a  host  of  men,  in  the  full 
trump  and  blazonry  of  war — what  all  their  ships,  their 
minstrelsey,  and  armed  power — to  the  advent  of  Augustine 
and  his  fellow-monks,  brought  hither  by  the  forlornness  of 
the  soul  of  man  ?  it  is  this  thought  that  makes  this  bit  of 
pebbled  beach  a  sacred  spot ;  it  is  this  spirit  of  meditation 
that  hears  in  every  little  wave  a  sweet  and  solemn  music. 

And  there,  where  the  ocean  tumbles,  was  in  the  olden 
day  a  goodly  town,  sapped,  swallowed  by  the  wearing,  the 
voracious  sea.  At  lowest  tides  the  people  still  discover 
odd,  quaint,  household  relics,  which,  despite  the  homely 
breeding  of  the  finders,  must  carry  away  their  thoughts  into 
the  mist  of  time,  and  make  them  feel  antiquity.  The 
very  children  of  the  village  are  hucksters  of  the  spoils  of 
dead  centuries.  They  grow  up  with  some  small  trading 
knowledge  of  fossils ;  and  are  deep,  very  deep  in  all  sorts 
of  petrifactions.  They  must  have  strange  early  sympathies 
towards  that  mysterious  town  with  all  its  tradesfolk  and 
market-folk  sunk  below  the  sea  ;  a  place  of  which  they 
have  a  constant  inkling  in  the  petty  spoils  lashed  upwards 
by  the  tempest.  Indeed,  it  is  difficult  for  the  mind  to 
conceive  the  annihilation  of  a  whole  town,  engulfed  in  the 
ocean.  The  tricksy  fancy  will  assert  itself;  and  looking 
over  the  shining  water,  with  summer  basking  on  it,  we  are 
apt  to  dream  that  the  said  market-town  has  only  suffered  a 
"  sea-change"  ;  and  that  fathoms  deep,  the  town  still  stands 
— that  busy  life  goes  on — that  people  of  an  odd,  sea-green 
aspect,  it  may  be,  still  carry  on  the  work  of  mortal  breath- 


B  UNIVERSITY  )! 
aVo^W;  AT    RECULVERS      147 

ing  ;  make  Jove,  beget  little  ones,  and  die.  But  this,  indeed, 
is  the  dream  of  idleness.  Yet,  who — if  he  could  change 
his  mind  at  will,  would  make  his  mind  incapable  of  such 
poor  fantasies?  How  much  of  the  coarse  web  of  existence 
owes  its  beauty  to  the  idlest  dreams  with  which  we  colour  it ! 

The  village  of  Reculvers  is  a  choice  work  of  antiquity. 
The  spirit  of  King  Ethelbert  tarries  there  still,  and  lives 
enshrined  in  the  sign  of  a  public-house.  It  would  be  well 
for  all  kings  could  their  spirits  survive  with  such  genial 
associations.  There  are  some  dead  royalties  too  profitless 
even  for  a  public  sign.  Who,  now,  with  any  other  choice 
would  empty  a  tankard  under  the  auspices  of  Bloody  Mary, 
as  that  anointed  "  femininitie "  is  called ;  or  take  a  chop 
even  at  Nero's  Head  ?  No  ;  inn-keepers  know  the  subtle 
prejudices  of  man,  nor  violate  the  sympathies  of  life  with 
their  sign-posts. 

Here,  on  the  sanded  floor  of  King  Ethelbert's  hostelry, 
do  village  antiquarians  often  congregate.  Here,  at  times, 
are  stories  told — stories  not  all  unworthy  of  the  type  of 
Antiquarian  Transactions — oijibula,  talked  of  as  buckles,  and 
other  tangible  bits  of  Roman  history.  Here,  we  have 
heard,  how  a  certain  woman — living  at  this  blessed  hour, 
and  the  mother  of  a  family — went  out  at  very  low  tide,  and 
found  the  branch  of  a  filbert-tree  with  clustering  filberts  on 
it,  all  stone,  at  least  a  thousand  years  old — and  more. 
Here,  too,  have  we  heard  of  a  wonderful  horse-shoe,  picked 
up  by  Joe  Squellins  ;  a  shoe,  as  the  finder  averred,  as  old 
as  the  world.  Poor  Joe  !  What  was  his  reward  ? — it  may 
be,  a  pint  of  ale  for  that  inestimable  bit  of  iron  !  And  yet 
was  he  a  working  antiquarian.  Joe  Squellins  had  within 
him  the  unchristened  elements  of  F.S.  A. 

The  sea  has  spared  something  of  the  old  churchyard  ; 
although  it  has  torn  open  the  sad  sanctity  of  the  grave,  and 
reveals  to  the  day,  corpse  upon  corpse — layers  of  the  dead, 
thickly,  closely  packed,  body  upon  body.     A  lateral  view 


148     A    GOSSIP    AT    RECULVERS 

of  rows  of  skeletons,  entombed  in  Christian  earth  centuries 
since,  for  a  moment  staggers  the  mind,  with  this  inward 
peep  of  the  grave.  We  at  once  see  the  close,  dark  prison 
of  the  churchyard,  and  our  breath  comes  heavily,  and  we 
shudder.  It  is  only  for  a  moment.  There  is  a  lark 
singing,  singing  over  our  head — a  mile  upwards  in  the 
blue  heaven — singing  like  a  freed  soul :  we  look  again,  and 
smile  serenely  at  the  bones  of  what  was  man. 

Many  of  our  gentle  countrymen — fellow-metropolitans  — 
who  once  a  year  wriggle  out  their  souls  from  the  slit  of 
their  tills  to  give  the  immortal  essence  sea  air,  make  a 
pilgrimage  to  Reculvers.  This  Golgotha,  we  have  noted 
it,  has  to  them  especial  attractions.  Many  are  the  mortal 
relics  borne  away  to  decorate  a  London  chimney-piece. 
Many  a  skeleton  gives  up  its  rib,  its  ulna,  two  or  three  odd 
vertebra,  or  some  such  gimcrack  to  the  London  visitor,  for 
a  London  ornament.  Present  the  same  man  with  a  bone 
from  a  London  hospital,  and  he  would  hold  the  act 
abominable,  irreligiously  presumptuous.  But  time  has 
"silvered  o'er  "  the  bone  from  Reculvers  ;  has  cleansed  it 
from  the  taint  of  mortality ;  has  merged  the  loathsomeness 
in  the  curiosity  ;  for  time  turns  even  the  worst  of  horrors 
to  the  broadest  of  jests.  We  have  now  Guy  Fawkes 
about  to  blow  Lords  and  Commons  into  eternity — and  now 
Guy  Fawkes  masked  for  a  pantomime. 

One  day,  wandering  near  this  open  graveyard,  we  met  a 
boy,  carrying  away,  with  exulting  looks,  a  skull  in  very 
perfect  preservation.  He  was  a  London  boy,  and  looked 
rich  indeed  with  his  treasure. 

"  What  have  you  there  ?  "  we  asked. 

"A  man's  head — a  skull,"  was  the  answer. 

"  And  what  can  you  possibly  do  with  a  skull  ?  " 

"  Take  it  to  London." 

"  And  when  you  have  it  in  London,  what  then  will  you 
do  with  it  ?  " 


A    GOSSIP    AT    RECULVERS      149 

"  I  know." 

M  No  doubt.      But  what  will  you  do  with  it  ? " 

And  to  this  thrice-repeated  question  the  boy  three  times 
answered,  "  I  know." 

"  Come,  here's  sixpence.  Now,  what  will  you  do  with 
it?" 

The  boy  took  the  coin — grinned — hugged  himself, 
hugging  the  skull  the  closer,  and  said  very  briskly,  "  Make 
a  money  box  of  it !  " 

A  strange  thought  for  a  child.  And  yet,  mused  we  as 
we  strolled  along,  how  many  of  us,  with  nature  beneficent  and 
smiling  on  all  sides — how  many  of  us  think  of  nothing  so 
much  as  hoarding  sixpences — yea,  hoarding  them  even  in 
the  very  jaws  of  desolate  Death  ! 


T 


^^ 


THE  TWO  WINDOWS 

The  Union  Workhouse  of  the  ancient  parish  of  Heme — 
how  calm  and  pastoral  is  that  little  nook  of  Kent ! — has 
two  outward  windows.  The  fabric,  built  by  the  inspira- 
tion of  the  New  Poor-law,  was  a  blind,  eyeless  piece  of 
brickwork  ;  a  gaol  for  the  iniquity  and  perseverance  of 
poverty  ;  a  Newgate  for  the  felony  of  want.  The  chiefs 
and  elders  of  Parliament  had  said,  "  Let  us  make  abiding- 
places  for  the  poor  ;  let  us  separate  them,  lepers  as  they 
are,  from  the  clean  ;  let  us  shut  them  up  from  the  sight 
of  the  green  earth  ;  let  them  not  behold  the  work  of  the 
season  in  the  budding  trees,  in  their  leafy  branches,  in  their 
red  and  golden  robes  of  autumn,  in  the  gaunt  bareness  of 
solemn  winter.  Let  the  grass  spring  and  the  wild-flower 
blossom  ;  but  let  not  the  poor,  the  unclean  of  the  land, 
look  upon  the  work  of  God."  After  this  resolve  the 
Union  was  built ;  with  inner  windows  looking  upon  walls, 
and  walls  turned  blank  upon  the  outward  world.  No 
crevice,  no  loophole  permitted  captive  poverty  a  look,  a 
glimpse  of  the  fresh  face  of  nature  ;  his  soul,  like  his  body, 
was  bricked  up  according  to  statute;  he  had  by  the  insol- 


THE    TWO    WINDOWS  151 

ence  of  destitution  offended  the  niceness  of  the  world,  and 
he  was  doomed  by  his  judges  to  a  divorce  from  the 
commonest  rights  of  earth.  Hence,  the  Union  Workhouse 
turned  its  sullen,  unbroken  wall  of  brick  upon  the  fields  and 
trees,  and  the  pauper  was  made  to  look  only  upon  pauperism. 
The  freshness  and  luxuriance  of  nature — her  prodigal  loveli- 
ness— was  not  for  his  eyes ;  he  was  poor,  and  even  to 
behold  the  plenteousness  of  the  teeming  earth  was  an  en- 
joyment beyond  his  state — a  banned  delight — a  luxury 
which  those  who  paid  for  his  food  could  not  properly 
vouchsafe  him  ! 

At  length — when  they  themselves  know  it  not,  men's 
hearts  will  work,  a  sense  of  right  will  sometimes  steal 
upon  their  sleep,  an  instinct  of  goodness  will,  like  silver 
water  from  the  rock,  gush  forth — at  length  it  was  resolved 
by  the  guardians  of  the  poor — guardians  of  the  poor  !  what 
a  holiness  of  purpose  should  inform  those  well-worn  syllables 
— that  the  dull,  blind,  squalid  workhouse  should  have  light ; 
that  its  brick  walls  should  be  pierced  with  two  windows  ; 
that  the  fields  and  trees  should  gladden  pauper  eyes,  ap- 
pealing to  old  recollections ;  childhood  thoughts ;  daily, 
customary  feelings.  It  was  determined  that  the  pauper 
prisoner  should,  through  the  iron  bars  of  penury,  have 
comforting  glimpses  of  God's  goodness  without ;  that  he 
should,  though  all  unconsciously,  make  offerings  upon  the 
green  altar  of  the  earth  ;  that  his  heart  should  commune, 
in  its  own  unknowing  way,  with  those  sweet  influences, 
which,  coming  from  God,  discourse  in  some  manner  to 
all  men. 

And  so  it  was  determined  that  the  Union  Workhouse 
should  have  two  outward  windows.  The  guardians  of  the 
poor  appeared  with  the  labourers.  "Here,"  said  the 
guardians,  "  break  through  the  wall ;  here  pierce  one 
window — here,  another."  Then  turning  to  the  paupers, 
some   few  age-stricken  folks,  they  said,  with   smug  com- 


152  THE    TWO    WINDOWS 

placency,  li  We  are  going  to  give  you  some  light."  And 
this,  reader,  is  not  a  goosequill  fiction  ;  it  is  a  thing  of 
truth. 

"  We  are  going  to  give  you  some  light."  We  cannot 
help  it,  if  this  liberal  goodness — this  gentle  philanthropy — 
drive  back  thought  to  the  first  gift  of  light ;  if  it  call  up, 
as  with  an  iron  tongue,  the  memory  of  the  holy  birth  of 
light,  word-begotten,  of  all  men.  And  the  nature  of  man, 
solemnised  by  such  memories — kindled  and  uplifted,  skies 
beyond  expression,  by  the  sublime  inheritance — is  it  not  a 
hard  task  to  consider  with  composure  even  the  compunction 
of  a  guardian  of  the  poor,  who  pierces  with  two  windows 
the  prison-house  of  the  pauper  to  let  God's  light  in  ? 
May  not  the  small  authority  of  man  be  sometimes  as  a 
blaspheming  burlesque  of  Almighty  Beneficence  ? 

Let  us,  for  a  time  forgetful  of  state  philosophy — forget- 
ful of  the  plausibilities  of  social  prosperity  that  set  the  poor 
apart  from  the  rich  and  well-to-do,  as  creatures  somewhat 
different  in  the  real  drama  of  life,  although  on  certain 
occasions,  as  it  were  for  form's  sake,  for  Christian  cere- 
mony, allowed  to  be  made  from  the  clay  of  the  same  Eden 
as  their  masters— let  us  behold  the  earth  in  its  freshness, 
and  man,  its  owner,  in  the  vigour  of  his  new  birth,  the 
heir  of  an  impartial  Providence,  and  the  receiver  of  its 
glories ;  and  then  consider  him  as  the  task-master  of  his 
fellow,  as  the  grudging  churl  that  metes  out  light  and  air 
to  his  helpless  brother  ;  and  for  this  sole  cause — this  one 
bitter  reason — he  is  helpless. 

A  miserable  sight — a  hideous  testimony  of  the  thankful- 
ness of  prosperous  man — is  the  rural  union,  with  its  blank 
dead  wall  of  brick  ;  a  cold,  blind  thing,  the  work  of  human 
perversity  and  human  selfishness,  amidst  ten  thousand  thou- 
sand evidences  of  Eternal  bounty.  How  beautiful  is  the 
beauty  of  God  around  it !  There  is  not  a  sapling  waving 
its   green   tresses   of  June   that   does   not   make   the   heart 


THE    TWO    WINDOWS  153 

yearn  with  kindliness ;  not  a  field-flower  that  does  not, 
with  its  speaking  eye,  tell  of  abundant  goodness  ;  the 
brook  is  musical  with  the  same  sweet  truth  ;  all  sights  and 
sounds  declare  it.  The  liberal  loveliness  of  nature,  turn 
where  we  will,  looks  upon  and  whispers  to  us.  We  are 
made  the  heirs  of  wealth  inexhaustible,  of  pleasures  deep  as 
the  sea  and  pure  as  the  joys  of  Paradise.  And  our  return 
for  this,  our  offering  to  the  wretchedness  of  our  fellow- 
creatures,  is  yonder  prison,  with  its  dead  wall  turned  upon 
the  pleasant  aspects  of  nature,  lest  the  pauper  captives 
within  should  behold  what  God  has  done  for  that  world, 
in  which,  according  to  the  world's  justice,  they  have 
nothing.  Hence  is  the  pauper  treated,  in  his  blind 
dungeon,  as  though  there  was  a  felonious  purpose  in  his 
eyesight ;  as  though,  a  prisoner  in  the  union,  he  would 
commit  larceny  on  the  meads  and  trees,  and  all  the  rural 
objects  that  from  babyhood  have  been  familiar  to  him,  to 
the  exceeding  injury  and  loss  of  the  free  folks,  who,  by  the 
blessing  of  skill  and  good  luck,  have  "land  and  beeves." 

We  know  not  a  more  fantastic  tyranny,  a  more  wilful 
assertion  of  the  arrogance  of  man,  than  this  needless  shut- 
ting up  of  his  poorer  brother  in  a  gaol  of  poverty — barring 
his  eyes  of  every  comforting  object,  compelling  him  to 
look  only  upon  that  which  at  every  look  speaks  to  his  soul 
of  his  miserable  dependence  upon  his  richer  fellow  ;  which 
denies  to  him  the  innocent,  unbought  glimpse  of  out-door 
nature,  as  though  the  scene  was  a  land  of  promise  from 
which  his  beggary  had  made  him  alien.  Is  human  want 
so  wicked  that  it  should  be  unblessed  with  even  a  glance 
at  the  pleasant  things  of  creation  r  Has  the  pauper — be- 
cause pauper — no  further  claim  upon  the  earth,  save  for  his 
final  bed — the  grave  ?  The  rustic  unions,  with  their  for- 
lorn blank  walls,  cry,  yes  ! 

If  God  punish  man  for  crime,  as  man  punishes  man  for 
poverty,  woe  to  the  sons  of  Adam  ! 


THE   ORDER    OF  POVERTY 

Why  should  not  Lazarus  make  to  himself  an  order  of 
tatters?  Why  should  not  poverty  have  its  patch  of  honour? 
Wherefore  should  not  the  undubbed  knights  of  evil  fortune 
carry  about  them,  with  a  gracious  humility,  the  inevitable 
types  of  their  valorous  contest  with  the  Paynim  iniquities 
of  life  ?  Wherefore  may  not  man  wear  indigence  as  proudly 
as  nobility  flashes  its  jewels  ?  Is  there  not  a  higher  heraldry 
than  that  of  the  college  ? 

Not  a  very  long  time  ago  the  King  of  Greece  awarded 
to  an  Englishman  the  Order  of  the  Redeemer.  The 
Englishman  did  not  reject  the  gift  ;  he  did  not  stare 
with  wonder,  or  smile  in  meek  pity  at  the  grave  mockery 
of  the  distinction  ;  but  winning  the  consent  of  our  Sovereign 
Lady  Victoria  to  sport  the  jewel,  the  Knight  of  Christ — 
knight  by  the  handiwork  of  the  King  of  Greece — hung 
about  him  the  Order  of  the  Redeemer. 

And  what  may  be  the  gracious  discipline  of  this  Order 

of  Redemption  ?      Has  the  new  knight  sold  off  all   that 

he   had,   and   given   the   money   to   the  poor  ?     We   have 

heard  of  no  such  broker's  work  ;  and  surely  the  newspaper 

154 


THE    ORDER    OF    POVERTY      155 

tongue  would  have  given  loud  utterance  to  the  penitence 
of  Mammon.  What  discipline,  then,  does  this  Order  of 
Christ  compel  upon  its  holy  and  immaculate  brotherhood  ? 
What  glorifying  services  towards  the  heart  and  spirit  of 
man — what  self-martyrdom  does  it  recompense  ?  Is  it 
the  bright  reward  of  humility — of  active  loving-kindness 
towards  everything  that  breathes  ?  Is  it  that  the  knighted, 
beyond  ten  thousand  men,  has  proved  the  divine  temper  oj 
the  spiritual  follower  of  Jesus,  making  his  hourly  life  an 
active  goodness,  and  with  every  breath  drawn  drawing 
nearer  to  rewarding  Heaven  ?  Surely  the  Order  of  the 
Redeemer — that  awful,  solemn  badge,  setting  apart  its 
wearer  from  the  sordid  crowd  of  earth — could  only  be 
vouchsafed  to  some  hard  Christian  service — could  only 
reward  some  triumphant  wrestling  of  the  suffering  soul — 
some  wondrous  victory  in  the  forlorn  hope  of  this  dark 
struggling  life.  These  are  our  thoughts — these  our  passion- 
ate words  ;  whereupon  the  herald  of  the  court  of  Greece 
— a  grave,  fantastic  wizard — with  mildly-reproving  look 
and  most  delicate  speech,  says  :  "  You  are  wrong :  quite 
wrong.  The  Order  of  the  Redeemer,  though  by  no 
means  the  first  Order,  is  a  very  pretty  Order  in  its  way. 
Six  months  since  we  gave  it  to  Captain  Jonquil,  from 
Paris  ;  and  truly  no  man  more  deserved  the  Order  of  the 
Redeemer.  He  taught  His  Majesty's  infantry  the  use 
of  the  bayonet :  his  howitzer  practice,  too,  is  a  divine 
thing.  Captain  Jonquil  is  a  great  soldier.  Last  week 
the  Order  of  the  Redeemer  was  also  bestowed  upon 
Andreas,  a  great  favourite  at  court — but,  if  the  naughty 
truth  must  be  told,  a  pimp." 

Alas  !   is  heraldry  always  innocent  of  blasphemy  ? 

On  the  13th  of  June  1843,  a  grave  masque — a  solemn 
ceremony — was  held  at  the  court  of  St  James.  Heraldry 
again  looked  smug  and  pompous.  A  knight  was  to  be 
made  of  "  the  most  ancient  Order  of  the  Thistle."      Let 


156     THE    ORDER    OF    POVERTY 

us  make  a  clean  breast  of  our  ignorance  ;  we  assert  nothing 
against  the  antiquity  of  the  Thistle  ;  for  what  we  know, 
it  may  be  as  old — ay,  as  old  as  asses.  But  upon  the  glad 
13th  of  June  a  chapter  was  held,  and  John,  Marquis  of 
Bute,  and  the  Right  Hon.  William,  Earl  of  Mansfield, 
were  elected  knights.  They  of  course  took  the  oaths  to 
protect  and  succour  distressed  maidens,  orphans  and  widows ; 
to  abstain  from  every  sort  of  wrong,  and  to  do  every  sort 
of  right. 

"  The  Marquis  of  Bute  then  kneeling  near  the  Sovereign, 
and  Mr  Woods  on  his  knee,  presenting  to  the  Queen  the 
riband  and  jewel  of  the  Order,  Her  Majesty  was  graciously 
pleased  to  place  the  same  over  the  noble  Marquis's  left 
shoulder.  His  Lordship  rising,  kissed  the  Sovereign's 
hand,  and  having  received  the  congratulations  of  the 
knights  brethren,  retired." 

From  that  moment  John,  Marquis  of  Bute,  looked  and 
moved  with  the  aspect  and  bearing  of  a  man,  radiant  with 
new  honours.  He  was  a  Knight  of  the  Thistle,  and  the 
jewel  sparkling  at  his  bosom  feebly  typified  the  bright, 
admiring  looks  of  the  world — the  gaze  of  mingled  love 
and  admiration  bent  upon  him.  But  on  this  earth — in 
this  abiding-place  of  equity — men  do  not  get  even  thistles 
for  nothing.  It  may,  indeed,  happen  that  desert  may 
pant  and  moan  without  honour  ;  but  in  the  court  of  kings, 
where  justice  weighs  with  nicest  balance,  honour  never 
with  its  smiles  mocks  imbecility,  or  gilds  with  outward 
lustre  a  concealed  rottenness.  Honour  never  gives  alms, 
but  awards  justice.  Mendicancy,  though  with  liveried 
lackies  clustering  at  its  carriage  —  and  there  is  such 
pauperism — may  whine  and  pray  its  hardest,  yet  move 
not  the  inflexible  herald.  He  awards  those  jewels  to 
virtue,  which  virtue  has  sweated,  bled  for.  And  it  is 
with  this  belief,  yea,  in  the  very  bigotry  of  the  creed, 
we  ask — what  has  John,  Marquis  of  Bute,  fulfilled  to  earn 


THE    ORDER    OF    POVERTY      157 

his  thistle?  What,  the  Right  Hon.  William,  Earl  of 
Mansfield  ?  What  dragon  wrong  has  either  overcome  ? 
What  giant  Untruth  stormed  in  Sophist  Castle?  What 
necromantic  wickedness  baffled  and  confounded?  Yet, 
these  battles  have  been  fought — these  triumphs  won  ;  oh  ! 
who  shall  doubt  them  ?  Be  sure  of  it,  ye  unbelieving 
demagogues  —  scoffing  plebians,  not  for  nothing  nobility 
browses  upon  thistles. 

We  pay  all  honour  to  these  inventions,  these  learned 
devices  of  the  Herald.  They  doubtless  clothe,  comfort, 
and  adorn  humanity,  which,  without  them,  would  be  cold, 
naked,  shrunk,  and  squalid.  They,  moreover,  gloriously 
attest  the  supremacy  of  the  tame,  the  civilised  man,  over 
the  wild  animal.  The  orders  of  the  Herald  are  tattoo 
without  the  pain  of  puncture.  The  New  Zealander 
carries  his  knighthood,  lined  and  starred  and  flowered, 
in  his  visage.  The  civilised  knight  hangs  it  more  con- 
veniently on  a  riband. 

We  are  such  devout  believers  in  the  efficacy  of  Orders, 
that  we  devote  this  small  essay  to  an  attempt  to  make 
them,  under  some  phase  or  other,  universal.  We  will 
not  linger  in  a  consideration  of  the  Orders  already  dead  ; 
lovely  was  their  life,  and  as  fragrant  is  their  memory. 
There  was  one  Order — Teutonic,  if  we  mistake  not,  the 
Order  of  Fools.  There  was  a  quaint  sincerity  in  the 
very  title  of  this  brotherhood.  Its  philosophy  was  out- 
speaking ;  and  more  than  all,  the  constitution  of  such  a 
chapter  admitted  knights  against  whose  worthiness,  whose 
peculiar  right  to  wear  the  badge,  no  envious  demagogue 
could  say  his  bitter  saying.  Surely,  in  our  reverence  for 
the  wisdom  of  antiquity,  this  Order  might  have  resurrection. 
The  Fool  might  have  his  bauble  newly  varnished — his  cap 
newly  hung  with  tinkling  bells.  Some  of  us  chirp  and 
cackle  of  the  wisdom  of  the  by-gone  day  ;  but  that  is  only 
wisdom  which  jumps  with  our  own  cunning  ;  which  fortifies 


158     THE    ORDER    OF    POVERTY 

us  in  the  warm  and  quiet  nook  of  some  hallowed  prejudice. 
From  the  mere  abstract  love  of  justice,  we  should  be  right 
glad  to  have  the  Order  of  Fools  revived  in  the  fullest 
splendour  of  Folly.  Such  an  Order  would  so  beneficently 
provide  for  many  unrewarded  public  idlers — ay,  and  public 
workers. 

There  was  a  time  when  the  world  in  its  first  childhood 
needed  playthings.  Then  was  the  Herald  the  world's  toy- 
maker,  and  made  for  it  pretty  little  nick-knacks — golden 
fleeces — stars,  ribands  and  garters ;  tempting  the  world 
to  follow  the  kickshaws,  as  nurse  with  sugared  bread-and- 
butter  tempts  the  yeanling  to  try  its  tottering  feet.  The 
world  has  grown  old — old  and  wise  :  yet  is  not  the  Herald 
bankrupt,  but  like  a  pedlar  at  a  fair,  draws  the  hearts  of 
simple  men  after  the  shining,  silken  glories  in  his  box. 
Meanwhile,  philosophy  in  hodden  grey,  laughs  at  the 
crowd,  who  bellow  back  the  laugh  and  sometimes  pelt 
the  reverend  fool  for  his  irreligious  humour :  for  he  who 
believes  not  in  Stars  and  Garters  is  unbeliever ;  to  the 
world's  best  and  brighest  faith,  atheist  and  scoffer. 

Is  it  not  strange  that  a  man  should  think  the  better  of 
himself  for  a  few  stones  glittering  in  his  bosom  ?  That  a 
costly  band  about  the  leg  should  make  the  blood  dance 
more  swiftly  through  the  arteries  ?  That  a  man  seeing  his 
breast  set  with  jewellers',  stars  should  think  them  glorious 
as  the  stars  of  heaven — himself,  little  less  than  an  earthly 
god,  so  deified  ?  If  these  things  be  really  types  and 
emblems  of  true  greatness,  what  rascal  poverty  besets  the 
man  without  them  !  How  is  he  damned  in  his  baseness  ! 
What  mere  offal  of  humanity,  the  biped  without  an  Order ! 
And,  therefore,  let  stars  be  multiplied  ;  and  let  nobility — 
like  bees — suck  honey  from  Thistles  ! 

We  are,  however,  confirmed  in  our  late  failing  faith. 
We  are  bigoted  to  Orders.  Men,  like  watches,  must  work 
the  better  upon  jewels.      Man  is,  at  the  best,  a   puppet ; 


THE    ORDER    OF    POVERTY      159 

and  is  only  put  into  dignified  motion  when  pulled  by  Blue 
or  Red  Ribands.  Now,  as  few,  indeed,  of  us  can  get 
stars,  garters  or  ribands,  let  us  have  Orders  of  our  own. 
Let  us,  with  invincible  self-complacency,  ennoble  ourselves. 

In  the  hopeless  ignorance  and  vulgarity  of  our  first 
prejudice,  we  might  possibly  want  due  veneration  for  the 
Golden  Fleece  ;  an  ancient  and  most  noble  Order,  worn 
by  few.  Yet  with  all  our  worst  carelessness  towards  the 
Order,  we  never  felt  for  it  the  same  pitying  contempt  we 
feel  towards  an  Order  worn  by  many — not  at  their  button- 
holes, not  outside  their  breasts,  but  in  the  very  core  of  their 
hearts — the  Order  of  the  Golden  Calf. 

Oh  !  bowelless  Plutus,  what  a  host  of  Knights  !  What 
a  lean-faced,  low-browed,  thick-jowled,  swag-bellied  brother- 
hood !  Deformity,  in  all  its  fantastic  variety,  meets  in  the 
chapter.  They  wear  no  armour  of  steel  or  brass,  but  are 
cased  in  the  magic  mail  of  impenetrable  Bank-paper.  They 
have  no  sword,  no  spear,  no  iron  mace  with  spikes  ;  but 
they  ride  merrily  into  the  fight  of  life,  swinging  about  gold- 
gutted  purses,  and  levelling  with  the  dust  rebellious  poverty. 
These  are  the  Knights  of  the  Golden  Calf.  It  is  a  glorious 
community.  What  a  look  of  easy  triumph  they  have  ! 
With  what  serene  self-satisfaction  they  measure  the  wide 
distance  between  mere  paupers — the  Knights  of  the  Order 
of  Nothing — and  themselves  !  How  they  walk  the  earth 
as  if  they  alone  possessed  the  patent  of  walking  upright ! 
How  they  dilate  in  the  light  of  their  own  gold,  like  adders 
in  the  sun  ! 

A  most  fatal  honour  is  this  Order  of  the  Golden  Calf. 
It  is  worn  unseen,  as  we  have  said,  in  the  hearts  of  men  ; 
but  its  effects  are  visible  :  the  disease  speaks  out  in  every 
atom  of  flesh — poor  human  worm's-meat ! — and  throbs  in 
every  muscle,  It  poisons  the  soul  ;  gives  the  eye  a  squint ; 
takes  from  the  face  of  fellow-man  its  God-gifted  dignity, 
and  makes  him  a  thing  to  prey  upon  ;  to  work,  to  use  up  ; 


160     THE    ORDER    OF    POVERTY 

to  reduce  to  so  much  hard  cash  ;  then  to  be  put  up,  with  a 
wary  look  of  triumph,  into  the  pocket.  This  Order  damns 
with  a  leprosy  of  soul  its  worshipper.  It  blinds  and  deafens 
him  to  the  glories  and  the  harmonies  ministrant  to  poorer 
men.  His  eye  is  jaundiced,  and  in  the  very  stars  of  God 
he  sees  nought  but  twinkling  guineas. 

At  this  moment  great  is  the  Order  throughout  the  land  ! 
Tyrannous  its  laws,  reckless  its  doings.  It  is  strong,  and 
why  should  it  be  just  ?  To  be  of  this  Order  is  now  the 
one  great  striving  of  life.  They  alone  are  men  who  wear 
the  jewel — wretches  they  without  it.  Man  was  originally 
made  from  the  dust  of  the  earth  :  he  is  now  formed  of  a 
richer  substance  :  the  true  man  is  made  of  gold.  Yes,  the 
regenerate  Adam  is  struck  only  at  the  Mint. 

The  Knights  of  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Calf  have  no 
formal  ceremony  of  election ;  yet  has  brother  knight  almost 
instinctive  knowledge  of  brother.  In  the  solitude  of  his 
own  thoughts  is  he  made  one  of  the  community ;  in  utter 
privacy  he  kisses  the  pulseless  hand  of  Plutus,  and  swears  to 
his  supremacy.  The  oath  divorces  him  from  pauper-life 
— from  its  cares,  its  wants,  its  sympathies.  He  is  privileged 
from  the  uneasiness  of  thought,  the  wear  and  tear  of  anxiety 
for  fellow-man ;  he  is  compact  and  self-concentrated  in  his 
selfishness.  Nought  ruffles  him  that  touches  not  that  inmost 
jewel  of  his  soul,  his  knighthood's  Order. 

In  the  olden  day  the  Knights  of  the  Fleece,  the  Garter 
and  other  glories,  won  their  rank  upon  the  battle-field — 
blood  and  strife  being  to  them  the  hand-maids  of  honour. 
The  chivalry  of  the  Golden  Calf  is  mild  and  gentle.  It 
splits  no  brain-pan,  spills  no  blood ;  yet  is  it  ever  fighting. 
We  are  at  the  exchange.  Look  at  that  easy,  peaceful  man. 
What  a  serenity  is  upon  his  cheek  !  What  a  mild  lustre 
in  his  eye !  How  plainly  is  he  habited  !  He  wears  the 
livery  of  simplicity  and  the  look  of  peace.  Yet  has  he  in 
his  heart  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Calf.     He  is  one  of 


THE    ORDER    OF    POVERTY      161 

Mammon's  boldest  heroes.  A  very  soldier  of  fortune. 
He  is  now  fighting — fighting  valorously.  He  has  come 
armed  with  a  bran-new  lie — a  falsehood  of  surpassing 
temper,  which  with  wondrous  quietude  he  lays  about  him, 
making  huge  gashes  in  the  money-bags  of  those  he  fights 
with.  A  good  foreign  lie,  well  finished  and  well  mounted, 
is  to  this  Knight  of  the  Golden  Calf  as  the  sword  of  Faery 
to  Orlando.  With  it  he  sometimes  cuts  down  giant  fortunes, 
and  after  "grinds  their  bones  to  make  his  bread." 

And  there  are  small  esquires  and  pages  of  the  Order  ; 
men  who,  with  heart-felt  veneration,  lick  their  lips  at  the 
Golden  Calf,  and  with  more  than  bridegroom  yearning  pant 
for  possession.  These  small  folk  swarm  like  summer-gnats  ; 
and  still  they  drone  the  praises  of  the  Calf;  and  looking  at 
no  other  thing,  have  their  eyes  bleared  and  dazzled  to  all 
beside. 

The  Knights  of  the  Golden  Calf  shed  no  blood  ;  that  is, 
the  wounds  they  deal  bleed  inwardly  and  give  no  evidence 
of  homicide.  They  are,  too,  great  consumers  of  the  marrow 
of  men  ;  and  yet  they  break  no  bones,  but  by  a  trick  known 
to  their  Order  extract  without  fracture  precious  nutriment. 
They  are  great  alchemists,  too ;  and  turn  the  sweat  of 
unrequited  poverty,  aye,  the  tears  of  childhood,  into  drops 
of  gold. 

Much  wrong,  much  violence,  much  wayward  cruelty — 
if  the  true  history  of  knighthood  were  indicted — lies  upon 
the  Fleece,  the  Garter,  yes,  upon  the  Templar's  Lamb ; — 
yet  all  is  but  as  May-day  pastime  to  the  voracity,  the  ignor- 
ance, the  wilful  selfishness,  the  bestial  lowings  of  the  Golden 
Calf.  And  of  this  Order  the  oldest  of  the  brotherhood 
are  the  most  gluttonous.  There  is  one  whose  every  fibre  is 
blasted  with  age.  To  the  imagination  his  face  is  as  a  cofHn- 
plate.  Yet  is  he  all  belly.  As  cruel  as  a  cat  though 
toothless  as  a  bird  ! 

Oh,  ye  knights,  great  and  small — whether  expanding  on 

L 


162      THE    ORDER    OF    POVERTY 

the  mart,  or  lying  perdu  in  back  parlours — fling  from  your 
hearts  the  Order  there,  and  feel  for  once  the  warmth  of 
kindly  blood !  The  brotherhood  chuckle  at  the  adjuration. 
Well,  let  us  fight  the  Order  with  an  Order. 

The  Order  of  Poverty  against  the  Order  of  the  Golden 
Calf! 

Will  it  not  be  a  merry  time,  when  men,  with  a  blithe 
face  and  open  look,  shall  confess  that  they  are  poor  ?  When 
they  shall  be  to  the  world  what  they  are  to  themselves  ? 
When  the  lie,  the  shuffle,  the  bland,  yet  anxious  hypocrisy 
of  seeming,  and  seeming  only,  shall  be  a  creed  forsworn  \ 
When  Poverty  asserts  itself,  and  never  blushes  and  stammers 
at  its  true  name,  the  Knights  of  the  Calf  must  give  ground. 
Much  of  their  strength,  their  poor  renown,  their  miserable 
glory,  lies  in  the  hypocrisy  of  those  who  would  imitate 
them.  They  believe  themselves  great,  because  the  poor,  in 
the  very  ignorance  of  the  dignity  of  poverty,  would  ape 
their  magnificence. 

The  Order  of  Poverty  !  How  many  sub-orders  might 
it  embrace !  As  the  spirit  of  Gothic  chivalry  has  its 
fraternities,  so  might  the  Order  of  Poverty  have  its 
distinct  devices. 

The  Order  of  the  Thistle !  That  is  an  order  for 
nobility — a  glory  to  glorify  marquisate  or  earldom.  Can 
we  not,  under  the  rule  of  Poverty,  find  as  happy  a  badge  ? 

Look  at  this  peasant.  His  face  bronzed  with  midday 
toil.  From  sunrise  to  sunset,  with  cheerful  looks  and 
uncomplaining  words,  he  turns  the  primal  curse  to  dignity, 
and  manfully  earns  his  bread  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow. 
Look  at  the  fields  around !  Golden  with  blessed  corn. 
Look  at  this  bloodless  soldier  of  the  plough — this  hero 
of  the  sickle.  His  triumphs  are  there,  piled  up  in  bread- 
bestowing  sheaves.  Is  he  not  Sir  Knight  of  the  Wheat- 
Ear  ?  Surely,  as  truly  dubbed  in  the  heraldry  of  justice, 
as  any  Knight  of  the  Thistle. 


THE    ORDER    OF    POVERTY      163 

And  here  is  a  white-haired  shepherd.  As  a  boy,  a 
child,  playful  as  the  lambs  he  tended,  he  laboured.  He 
has  dreamed  away  his  life  upon  a  hillside — on  downs — 
on  solitary  heaths.  The  humble,  simple,  patient  watcher 
for  fellow-men.  Solitude  has  been  his  companion  :  he  has 
grown  old,  wrinkled,  bent  in  the  eye  of  the  burning  sun. 
His  highest  wisdom  is  a  guess  at  the  coming  weather :  he 
may  have  heard  of  diamonds,  but  he  knows  the  evening  star. 
He  has  never  sat  at  a  congress  of  kings :  he  has  never 
helped  to  commit  a  felony  upon  a  whole  nation.  Yet  is  he 
to  our  mind  a  most  reverend  Knight  of  the  Fleece.  If 
the  Herald  object  to  this,  let  us  call  him  Knight  of  the 
Lamb  !  In  its  gentleness  and  patience,  a  fitting  type  of 
the  poor  old  shepherd. 

And  here  is  a  pauper,  missioned  from  the  workhouse  to 
break  stones  at  the  road-side.  How  he  strikes  and  strikes 
at  that  unyielding  bit  of  flint !  Is  it  not  the  stony  heart 
of  the  world's  injustice  knocked  at  by  poverty  ?  What 
haggardness  is  in  his  face  !  What  a  blight  hangs  about 
him  !  There  are  more  years  in  his  looks  than  in  his  bones. 
Time  has  marked  him  with  an  iron  pen.  He  wailed  as  a 
babe  for  bread  his  father  was  not  allowed  to  earn.  He 
can  recollect  every  dinner — they  were  so  few — of  his  child- 
hood. He  grew  up,  and  want  was  with  him  even  as  his 
shadow.  He  has  shivered  with  cold — fainted  with  hunger. 
His  every  day  of  life  has  been  set  about  by  goading 
wretchedness.  Around  him,  too,  were  the  stores  of  plenty. 
Food,  raiment,  and  money  mocked  the  man  made  half  mad 
with  destitution.  Yet,  with  a  valorous  heart,  a  proud  con- 
quest of  the  shuddering  spirit,  he  walked  with  honesty  and 
starved.  His  long  journey  of  life  hath  been  through  thorny 
places,  and  now  he  sits  upon  a  pile  of  stones  on  the  way- 
side, breaking  them  for  workhouse  bread.  Could  loftiest 
chivalry  show  greater  heroism — nobler  self-control,  than 
this  old  man,  this  weary  breaker  of  flints  ?     Shall  he  not 


164      THE    ORDER    OF    POVERTY 


be  of  the  Order  of  Poverty  ?  Is  not  penury  to  him  even 
as  a  robe  of  honour  ?  His  grey  workhouse  coat  braver 
than  purple  and  miniver  ?  He  shall  be  Knight  of  the 
Granite  if  you  will.  A  workhouse  gem,  indeed  —  a 
wretched,  highway  jewel — yet,  to  the  eye  of  truth,  #finer 
than  many  a  ducal  diamond. 

This  man  is  a  weaver  ;  this  a  potter.  Here,  too,  is  a 
razor-grinder;  here  an  iron- worker.  Labour  is  their  lot ; 
labour  they  yearn  for,  though  to  some  of  them  labour  comes 
with  miserable  disease  and  early  death.  Have  we  not  here 
Knights  of  the  Shuttle,  Knights  of  Clay,  and  Knights  of 
Vulcan,  who  prepare  the  carcase  of  the  giant  engine  for  its 
vital  flood  of  steam  ?  Are  not  these  among  the  noblest  of 
the  sons  of  Poverty  ?  Shall  they  not  take  high  rank  in  its 
Order  ? 

We  are  at  the  mouth  of  a  mine.     There,  many,  many 


THE    ORDER    OF    POVERTY 


65 


fathoms  below  us,  works  the  naked,  grimed,  and  sweating 
wretch,  oppressed,  brutalised,  that  he  may  dig  us  coal  for 
our  winter's  hearth  ;  where  we  may  gather  round,  and  with 
filled  bellies,  well-clothed  backs,  and  hearts  all  lapped  in 
self-complacency,  talk  of  the  talked-of  evils  of  the  world, 
as  though  they  were  the  fables  of  ill-natured  men,  and  not 
the  verities  of  bleeding  life.  That  these  men,  doing  the 
foulest  offices  of  the  world  should  still  be  of  the  world's 
poorest,  gives  dignity  to  want — the  glory  of  long-suffering 
to  poverty. 

And  so,  indeed,  in  the  mind  of  wisdom,  is  poverty 
ennobled.  And  for  the  Knights  of  the  Golden  Calf, 
how  are  they  outnumbered !  Let  us,  then,  revive  the 
Order  of  Poverty.  Ponder,  reader,  on  its  antiquity. 
For  was  not  Christ  Himself  Chancellor  of  the  Order, 
and  the  Apostles  Knights  Companions  ? 


THE  OLD  MAN  AT  THE  GATE 

In  Surrey,  some  three  miles  from  Chertsey,  is  a  quiet,  dull, 
sequestered  nook,  called  Shepperton  Green.  Whether  the 
new  philanthropy  of  new  pauper  laws  hath,  of  late  years, 
sought  out  the  spot  I  know  not.  At  the  time  whereof  I 
write,  the  olden  charity  dwelt  in  an  old  workhouse — a 
primitive  abiding-place  for  the  broken  ploughman,  the 
palsied  shepherd,  the  old,  old  peasant,  for  whom  nothing 
more  remained  in  this  world  but  to  die.  The  governor  of 
this  abode  of  benevolence  dwelt  in  the  lower  part  of  the 
building,  and  therein,  as  the  village  trade  might  fluctuate, 
made  or  mended  shoes.  Let  the  plain  truth  be  said — the 
governor  was  a  cobbler.  Within  a  stone's  cast  of  the 
workhouse  was  a  little  white  gate  swung  between  two 
hedge-banks  in  the  road  to  Chertsey.  Here,  pass  when 
you  would,  stood  an  old  man,  whose  self-imposed  office 
it  was  to  open  the  gate  ;  for  the  which  service  the  passenger 
would  drop  some  small  benevolence  in  the  withered  hand  of 

166 


THE    OLD    MAN    AT    THE    GATE  167 

the   aged  peasant.     This  man  was  a  pauper — one  of  the 
almsmen  of  the  village  workhouse. 

There  was  a  custom — whether  established  by  the  governor 
aforesaid  or  by  predecessors  of  a  vanished  century,  I  know 
not — that  made  it  the  privilege  of  the  oldest  pauper  to  stand 
the  porter  at  the  gate  ;  his  perquisite,  by  right  of  years,  the 
halfpence  of  the  rare  pedestrian.  As  the  senior  died,  the 
living  senior  succeeded  to  the  office.  Now  the  gate — and 
now  the  grave. 

And  this  is  all  the  history  ?  All.  The  story  is  told — 
it  will  not  bear  another  syllable.  The  "  Old  Man  "  is  at 
the  gate ;  the  custom  which  places  him  there  has  been 
made  known,  and  with  it  ends  the  narrative. 

How  few  the  incidents  of  life — how  multitudinous  its 
emotions  !  How  flat,  monotonous  may  be  the  circumstance 
of  daily  existence,  and  yet  how  various  the  thoughts  which 
spring  from  it !  Look  at  yonder  landscape,  broken  into 
hill  and  dale,  with  trees  of  every  hue  and  form,  and  water 
winding  in  silver  threads  through  velvet  fields.  How 
beautiful — for  how  various  !  Cast  your  eye  over  that 
moor  ;  it  is  flat  and  desolate — barren  as  barren  rock.  Not 
so.  Seek  the  soil,  and  then,  with  nearer  gaze,  contemplate 
the  wondrous  forms  and  colours  of  the  thousand  mosses 
growing  there ;  give  ear  to  the  hum  of  busy  life  sounding 
at  every  root  of  poorest  grass.  Listen  !  Does  not  the 
heart  of  the  earth  beat  audibly  beneath  this  seeming  barren- 
ness —  audibly  as  where  the  corn  grows  and  the  grape 
ripens  ?  Is  it  not  so  with  the  veriest  rich  and  the  veriest 
poor — with  the  most  active  and  with  apparently  the  most 
inert  ? 

That  "  Old  Man  at  the  Gate  "  has  eighty  years  upon 
his  head — eighty  years,  covering  it  with  natural  reverence. 
He  was    once    in    London — only  once.      This  pilgrimage  # 
excepted,  he  has  never  journeyed  twenty  miles  from  the 
cottage  in  which  he  was  born  ;    of  which  he  became  the 


168  THE  OLD  MAN  AT  THE  GATE 

master ;  whereto  he  brought  his  wife ;  where  his  children 
saw  the  light,  and  their  children  after ;  where  many  of 
them  died ;  and  whence,  having  with  a  stout  soul,  fought 
against  the  strengthening  ills  of  poverty  and  old  age,  he 
was  thrust  by  want  and  sickness  out,  and,  with  a  stung 
heart,  he  laid  his  bones  upon  a  workhouse  bed. 

Life  to  the  "  Old  Man  "  has  been  one  long  path  across 
a  moor — a  flat,  unbroken  journey ;  the  eye  uncheered, 
the  heart  unsatisfied.  Coldness  and  sterility  have  compassed 
him  round.  Yet,  has  he  been  subdued  to  the  blank ness 
of  his  destiny  ?  Has  his  mind  remained  the  unwrit  page 
that  schoolmen  talk  of — has  his  heart  become  a  clod  ? 
Has  he  been  made  by  poverty  a  moving  image — a  plough- 
guiding,  corn-thrashing  instrument  ?  Have  not  unutterable 
thoughts  sometimes  stirred  within  his  brain — thoughts 
that  elevated,  yet  confused  him  with  a  sense  of  eternal 
beauty — coming  upon  him  like  the  spiritual  presences  to 
the  shepherds  ?  Has  he  not  been  beset  by  the  inward 
and  mysterious  yearning  of  the  heart  towards  the  unknown 
and  the  unseen  ?  He  has  been  a  ploughman.  In  the  eye 
of  the  well-to-do,  dignified  with  the  accomplishments  of 
reading  and  writing,  is  he  of  little  more  intelligence  than 
the  oxen  treading  the  glebe.  Yet,  who  shall  say  that  the 
influence  of  nature — that  the  glories  of  the  rising  sun — may 
not  have  called  forth  harmonies  of  soul  from  the  rustic 
drudge,  the  moving  statue  of  a  man  ! 

That  worn-out,  threadbare  remnant  of  humanity  at  the 
gate ;  age  makes  it  reverend,  and  the  inevitable — shall 
inevitable  be  said  ? — injustice  of  the  world  invests  it  with 
majesty,  the  majesty  of  suffering  meekly  borne  and  meekly 
decaying.  "  The  poor  shall  never  cease  out  of  the  land." 
This  text  the  self-complacency  of  competence  loveth  to 
quote :  it  hath  a  melody  in  it,  a  lulling  sweetness  to  the 
selfishness  of  our  nature.  Hunger,  and  cold,  and  naked- 
ness, are  the  hard  portion  of  man  ;  there  is  no  help  for  it ; 


THE    OLD    MAN    AT    THE    GATE   169 

rags  must  flutter  about  us  ;  man,  yes,  even  the  strong  man, 
his  only  wealth  (the  wealth  of  Adam)  wasting  in  his  bones, 
must  hold  his  pauper  hand  to  his  brother  of  four  meals 
per  diem  ;  it  is  a  necessity  of  nature,  and  there  is  no  help 
for  it.  And  thus  some  men  send  their  consciences  to 
sleep  by  the  chinking  of  their  own  purses.  Necessity  of  evil 
is  an  excellent  philosophy  applied  to  everybody  but — 
ourselves. 

These  easy  souls  will  see  nothing  in  our  "  Old  Man  at 
the  Gate "  but  a  pauper,  let  out  of  the  workhouse  for 
the  chance  of  a  few  halfpence.  Surely,  he  is  something 
more  ?  He  is  old  ;  very  old.  Every  day,  every  hour, 
earth  has  less  claim  in  him.  He  is  so  old,  so  feeble,  that 
even  as  you  look  he  seems  sinking.  At  sunset  he  is 
scarcely  the  man  who  opened  the  gate  to  you  in  the 
morning.  Yet  there  is  no  disease  in  him — none.  He  is 
dying  of  old  age.  He  is  working  out  that  most  awful 
problem  of  life — slowly,  solemnly.  He  is  now  the  badged 
pauper — and  now  in  the  unknown  country  with  Solomon ! 

Can  man  look  upon  a  more  touching  solemnity  ?  There 
stands  the  old  man,  passive  as  a  stone,  nearer  every  moment 
to  churchyard  clay !  It  was  only  yesterday  that  he  took 
his  station  at  the  gate.  His  predecessor  held  the  post  for 
two  years ;  he  too  daily,  daily  dying  : — 

"Till  like  a  clock,  worn  out  with  eating  time, 
The  weary  wheels  of  life  at  length  stood  still." 

How  long  will  the  present  watcher  survive  ?  In  that 
very  uncertainty — in  the  very  hoariness  of  age  which 
brings  home  to  us  that  uncertainty — there  is  something  that 
makes  the  old  man  sacred  ;  for,  in  the  course  of  nature, 
is  not  the  oldest  man  the  nearest  to  the  angels  ? 

Yet,  away  from  these  thoughts,  there  is  reverence  due 
to  that  old  man.  What  has  been  his  life  ?  A  war  with 
suffering.      What  a  beautiful  world  is  this  !       How  rich 


170THE  OLD  MAN  AT  THE  GATE 

and  glorious !  How  abundant  in  blessings — great  and 
little — to  thousands  !  What  a  lovely  place  hath  God  made 
it ;  and  how  have  God's  creatures  darkened  and  outraged 
it  to  the  wrong  of  one  another  !  Well,  what  had  this  man 
of  the  world  ?  What  stake,  as  the  effrontery  of  selfishness 
has  it  ?  The  wild  fox  was  better  cared  for.  Though 
preserved  some  day  to  be  killed,  it  was  preserved  until 
then.  What  did  this  old  man  inherit  ?  Toil,  incessant 
toil,  with  no  holiday  of  the  heart :  he  came  into  the  world 
a  badged  animal  of  labour  ;  the  property  of  animals.  What 
was  the  earth  to  him  ? — a  place  to  die  in. 

"  The  poor  shall  never  cease  out  of  the  land."  Shall 
we  then,  accommodating  our  sympathies  to  this  hard 
necessity,  look  serenely  down  upon  the  wretched?  Shall 
we  preach  only  comfort  to  ourselves  from  the  doomed 
condition  of  others  ?  It  is  an  easy  philosophy  ;  so  easy 
there  is  but  little  wonder  it  is  so  well  exercised. 

But  "The  Old  Man  at  the  Gate"  has,  for  seventy 
years,  worked  and  worked  ;  and  what  his  closing 
reward  ?  The  workhouse.  Shall  we  not,  some  of  us, 
blush  crimson  at  our  own  world-successes,  considering  the 
destitution  of  our  worthy,  single-hearted  fellows  ?  Should 
not  affluence  touch  its  hat  to  "  The  Old  Man  at  the  Gate  " 
with  a  reverence  for  the  years  upon  him  ;  he — the  born 
soldier  of  poverty,  doomed  for  life  to  lead  life's  forlorn  hope  ? 
Thus  considered,  surely  Dives  may  unbonnet  to  Lazarus. 

To  our  mind  the  venerableness  of  age  made  "  The  Old 
Man  at  the  Gate  "  something  like  a  spiritual  presence.  He 
was  so  old,  who  could  say  how  few  the  pulsations  of  his 
heart  between  him  and  the  grave  !  But  there  he  was  with 
a  meek  happiness  upon  him  ;  gentle,  cheerful.  He  was  not 
built  up  in  bricks  and  mortar ;  but  was  still  in  the  open  air, 
with  the  sweetest  influences  about  him  ;  the  sky — the 
trees — the  green  sward — and  flowers  with  the  breath  of 
God  in  them  ! 


THp  FOLLY    OF    THE    SWORD 

May  we  ask  the  reader  to  behold  with  us  a  melancholy 
show — a  saddening,  miserable  spectacle  ?  We  will  not  take 
him  to  a  prison,  a  workhouse,  a  Bedlam,  where  human 
nature  expiates  its  guiltiness,  its  lack  of  worldly  goods,  its 
most  desolate  perplexity ;  but  we  will  take  him  to  a 
wretchedness,  first  contrived  by  wrong  and  perpetrated  by- 
folly.  We  will  show  him  the  embryo  mischief  that  in  due 
season  shall  be  born  in  the  completion  of  its  terror,  and 
shall  be  christened  with  a  sounding  name, — Folly  and 
wickedness  standing  its  sponsors. 

We  are  in  St  James's  Park.  The  royal  standard  of 
England  burns  in  the  summer  air — the  Queen  is  in  London. 
We  pass  the  Palace,  and  in  a  few  paces  are  in  Birdcage 
Walk.  There,  reader,  is  the  miserable  show  we  promised 
you.  There  are  some  fifty  recruits,  drilled  by  a  sergeant  to 
do  homicide,  killingly,  handsomely.  In  Birdcage  Walk 
Glory  sits  upon  her  eggs,  and  hatches  eagles  ! 

How  very  beautiful  is  the  sky  above  us  !  What  a  blessing 
comes  with  the  fresh,  quick  air  !  The  trees,  drawing  their 
green  beauty  from  the  earth,  quicken  our  thoughts  of  the 


172    THE    FOLLY    OF    THE    SWORD 

bounteousness  of  this  teeming  world.  Here  in  this  nook, 
this  patch,  where  we  yet  feel  the  vibrations  of  surrounding 
London^even  here  Nature,  constant  in  her  beauty,  blooms 
and  smiles,  uplifting  the  heart  of  man — if  the  heart  be  his 
to  own  her. 

Now,  look  aside  and  contemplate  God's  image  with  a 
musket.  Your  bosom  duly  expanding  with  gratitude  to 
nature  for  the  blessings  she  has  heaped  about  you,  behold 
the  crowning  glory  of  God's  work  managed,  like  a  machine, 
to  slay  the  image  of  God — to  stain  the  teeming  earth  with 
homicidal  blood — to  fill  the  air  with  howling  anguish  !  Is 
not  yonder  row  of  clowns  a  melancholy  sight  ?  Yet  are  they 
the  sucklings  of  Glory — the  baby  mighty  ones  of  a  future 
Gazette.  Reason  beholds  them  with  a  deep  pity.  Imagina- 
tion magnifies  them  into  fiends  of  wickedness.  There  is 
carnage  about  them — carnage,  and  the  pestilential  vapour  of 
the  slaughtered.  What  a  fine-looking  thing  is  war  !  Yet 
dress  it  as  we  may,  dress  and  feather  it,  daub  it  with  gold, 
huzza  it  and  sing  swaggering  songs  about  it — what  is  it,  nine 
times  out  of  ten — but  murder  in  uniform  ?  Cain,  taken  the 
sergeant's  shilling  ? 

And  now  we  hear  the  fifes  and  drums  of  her  Majesty's 
Grenadiers.  They  pass  on  the  other  side  ;  and  a  crowd  of 
idlers,  their  hearts  jumping  to  the  music,  their  eyes  dazzled, 
and  their  feelings  perverted,  hang  about  the  march  and  catch 
the  infection — the  love  of  glory  !  And  true  wisdom  thinks 
of  the  world's  age,  and  sighs  at  its  slow  advance  in  all  that 
really  dignifies  man — the  truest  dignity  being  the  truest  love 
for  his  fellow.  And  then  hope,  and  faith  in  human  progress, 
contemplate  the  pageant,  its  real  ghastliness  disguised  by 
outward  glare  and  frippery,  and  know  the  day  will  come 
when  the  symbols  of  war  will  be  as  the  sacred  beasts  of 
old  Egypt — things  to  mark  the  barbarism  of  bygone  war  ; 
melancholy  records  of  the  past  perversity  of  human  nature. 

We  can  imagine  the  deep-chested  laughter — the  look  of 


THE    FOLLY    OF    THE    SWORD     173 

scorn  which  would  annihilate,  and  then  the  smile  of  com- 
passion— of  the  man  of  war  at  this,  the  dream  of  folly  and 
the  wanderings  of  an  inflamed  brain.  Yet,  oh,  man  of  war  ! 
at  this  very  moment  are  you  shrinking,  withering  like  an 
aged  giant.  The  fingers  of  Opinion  have  been  busy  at 
your  plume — you  are  not  the  feathered  thing  you  were ; 
and  then  that  little  tube,  the  goose  quill,  has  sent  its  silent 
shot  into  your  huge  anatomy  ;  and  the  corroding  ink,  even 
whilst  you  look  at  it,  and  think  it  shines  so  brightly,  is 
eating  with  a  tooth  of  rust  into  your  sword. 

That  a  man  should  kill  a  man  and  rejoice  in  the  deed — 
nay,  gather  glory  from  it — is  the  act  of  a  wild  animal.  The 
force  of  muscle  and  the  dexterity  of  limb  which  make  the 
wild  man  a  conqueror  are  deemed,  in  savage  life,  man's 
highest  attributes.  The  creature  whom,  in  the  pride  of  our 
Christianity,  we  call  heathen  and  spiritually  desolate,  has 
some  personal  feeling  in  the  strife — he  kills  his  enemy,  and 
then,  making  an  oven  of  hot  stones,  bakes  his  dead  body, 
and,  for  crowning  satisfaction,  eats  it.  His  enemy  becomes 
a  part  of  him  ;  his  glory  is  turned  to  nutriment ;  and  he  is 
content.  What  barbarism  !  Field-marshals  sicken  at  the 
horror ;  nay,  troopers  shudder  at  the  tale,  like  a  fine  lady  at 
a  toad. 

In  what,  then,  consists  the  prime  evil  ?  In  the  murder, 
or  in  the  meal  ?  Which  is  the  most  hideous  deed — to  kill 
a  man,  or  to  cook  and  eat  the  man  when  killed  ? 

But,  softly,  there  is  no  murder  in  the  case.  The  craft  of 
man  has  made  a  splendid  ceremony  of  homicide — has 
invested  it  with  dignity.  He  slaughters  with  flags  flying, 
drums  beating,  trumpets  braying.  He  kills  according  to 
method,  and  has  worldly  honours  for  his  grim  handiwork. 
He  does  not,  like  the  unchristian  savage,'  carry  away  with 
him  mortal  trophies  from  the  skulls  of  his  enemies.  No, 
the  alchemy  and  magic  of  authority  turns  his  well- won 
scalps  into  epaulets,  or  hangs  them  in  stars  and  crosses  at 


i74    THE    FOLLY    OF    THE    SWORD 

his  button-hole  ;  and  then,  the  battle  over,  the  dead  not 
eaten,  but  carefully  buried — and  the  maimed  and  mangled 
howling  and  blaspheming  in  hospitals — the  meek  Christian 
warrior  marches  to  church,  and  reverently  folding  his  sweet 
and  spotless  hands,  sings  Te  Deum.  Angels  wave  his 
fervent  thanks  to  God,  to  whose  footstool — in  his  own  faith 
— he  has  so  lately  sent  his  shuddering  thousands.  And  this 
spirit  of  destruction  working  within  him  is  canonised  by  the 
craft  and  ignorance  of  man  and  worshipped  as  glory  ! 

And  this  religion  of  the  sword — this  dazzling  heathenism, 
that  makes  a  pomp  of  wickedness — seizes  and  distracts  us 
even  on  the  threshold  of  life.  Swords  and  drums  are  our 
baby  playthings  ;  the  types  of  violence  and  destruction  are 
made  the  pretty  pastimes  of  our  childhood  ;  and  as  we  grow 
older,  the  outward  magnificence  of  the  ogre  Glory — his  trap- 
pings and  his  trumpets,  his  privileges,  and  the  songs  that 
are  shouted  in  his  praise — ensnare  the  bigger  baby  to  his 
sacrifice.  Hence  slaughter  becomes  an  exalted  profession  ; 
the  marked,  distinguished  employment  of  what  in  the  jargon 
of  the  world  is  called  a  gentleman. 

But  for  this  craft  operating  upon  this  ignorance,  who — in 
the  name  of  outraged  God — would  become  the  hireling  of 
the  Sword  ?  Hodge,  poor  fellow,  enlists.  He  wants  work  ; 
or  he  is  idle,  dissolute.  Kept,  by  the  injustice  of  the  world, 
as  ignorant  as  the  farmyard  swine,  he  is  the  better  instru- 
ment for  the  world's  craft.  His  ear  is  tickled  with  the  fife 
and  drum  ;  or  he  is  drunk  ;  or  the  sergeant — the  lying 
valet  of  glory — tells  a  good  tale,  and  already  Hodge  is  a 
warrior  in  the  rough.  In  a  fornight's  time  you  may  see 
him  at  Chatham  ;  or  indeed  he  was  one  of  those  we  marked 
in  Birdcage  Walk.  Day  by  day  the  sergeant  works  at  the 
block  ploughman,  and,  chipping  and  chipping,  at  length 
carves  out  a  true,  handsome  soldier  of  the  line.  What 
knew  Hodge  of  the  responsibility  of  man  ?  What  dreams 
had  he  of  the  self-accountability  of  the  human  spirit  ?     He 


Hcd^e- .poor  fellow, ej-.li.rfcv- 


THE    FOLLY    OF    THE    SWORD     177 

is  become  the  lackey  of  carnage,  the  liveried  footman,  at  a 
few  pence  per  day,  of  fire  and  blood.  The  musket  stock, 
which  for  many  an  hour  he  hugs — hugs  in  sulks  and  weariness 
— was  no  more  a  party  to  its  present  use  than  was  Hodge. 
That  piece  of  walnut  is  the  fragment  of  a  tree  that  might 
have  given  shade  and  fruit  for  another  century ;  homely, 
rustic  people  gathering  under  it.  Now  it  is  the  instrument 
of  wrong  and  violence  ;  the  working  tool  of  slaughter. 
Tree  and  man,  are  not  their  destinies  as  one  ? 

And  is  Hodge  alone  of  benighted  mind  ?  Is  he  alone 
deficient  of  that  knowledge  of  moral  right  and  wrong,  which 
really  and  truly  crowns  the  man  king  of  himself?  When 
he  surrenders  up  his  nature,  a  mere  machine  with  human 
pulses  to  do  the  bidding  of  war,  has  he  taken  counsel  with 
his  own  reflection — does  he  know  the  limit  of  the  sacrifice  ? 
He  has  taken  his  shilling,  and  knows  the  facings  of  his 
uniform  ! 

When  the  born  and  bred  gentleman,  to  keep  to  coined 
and  current  terms,  pays  down  his  thousand  pounds  or  so 
for  his  commission,  what  incites  to  the  purchase  ?  It  may 
be  the  elegant  idleness  of  the  calling :  it  may  be  the  bullion 
and  glitter  of  the  regimentals  ;  or,  devout  worshipper,  it 
may  be  an  unquenchable  thirst  for  glory.  From  the 
moment  when  his  name  stars  the  Gazette,  what  does  he 
become  ?  The  bond-servant  of  war  !  Instantly  he  ceases 
to  be  a  judge  between  moral  right  and  moral  injury.  It  is 
his  duty  not  to  think,  but  to  obey.  He  has  given  up, 
surrendered  to  another  the  freedom  of  his  soul :  he  has 
dethroned  the  majesty  of  his  own  will.  He  must  be  active 
in  wrong,  and  see  not  the  injustice :  shed  blood  for  craft 
and  usurpation,  calling  bloodshed  valour.  He  may  be 
made,  by  the  iniquity  of  those  who  use  him,  a  burglar  and 
a  brigand  ;  but  glory  calls  him  pretty  names  for  his  prowess, 
and  the  wicked  weakness  of  the  world  shouts  and  acknow- 
ledges him.      And  is  this  the  true  condition  of  reasonable 


178    THE    FOLLY    OF    THE    SWORD 

man  ?  Is  it  by  such  means  that  he  best  vindicates  the  great- 
ness of  his  mission  here  ?  Is  he  when  he  most  gives  up  the 
free  motions  of  his  own  soul — is  he  then  most  glorious  ? 

A  few  months  ago  chance  showed  us  a  band  of  ruffians 
who,  as  it  afterwards  appeared,  were  intent  upon  most 
desperate  mischief.  They  spread  themselves  over  the 
country,  attacking,  robbing,  and  murdering  all  who  fell 
into  their  hands.  Men,  women,  and  children  all  suffered 
alike.  Nor  were  the  villains  satisfied  with  this.  In  their 
wanton  ruthlessness  they  set  fire  to  cottages,  and  tore  up 
and  destroyed  plantations.  Every  footpace  of  their  march 
was  marked  with  blood  and  desolation. 

Who  were  these  wretches  ?  you  ask.  What  place  did 
they  ravage  ?     Were  they  not  caught  and  punished  ? 

They  were  a  part  of  the  army  of  Africa  ;  valorous  French- 
men, bound  for  Algiers  to  cut  Arab  throats  ;  and,  in  the 
name  of  glory,  and  for  the  everlasting  glory  of  France,  to 
burn,  pillage,  and  despoil ;  and  all  for  national  honour — all 
for  glory  ! 

But  Glory  cannot  dazzle  Truth.  Does  it  not  at  times 
appear  no  otherwise  than  a  highwayman  with  a  pistol  at 
a  nation's  breast?  a  burglar  with  a  crowbar  entering  a 
kingdom  ?  Alas  !  in  this  world  there  is  no  Old  Bailey  for 
nations,  otherwise  where  would  have  been  the  crowned 
heads  that  divided  Poland  ?  Those  felon  monarchs 
anointed  to — steal  ?  It  is  true  the  historian  claps  the 
cutpurse  conqueror  in  the  dock,  and  he  is  tried  by  the 
jury  of  posterity.  He  is  past  the  verdict,  yet  is  not  its 
damnatory  voice  lost  upon  generations  ?  For  thus  is  the 
world  taught — albeit  slowly  taught — true  glory  ;  when  that 
which  passed  for  virtue  is  truly  tested  to  be  vile  ;  when  the 
hero  is  hauled  from  the  car  and  fixed  for  ever  in  the 
pillory. 

But  war  brings  forth  the  heroism  of  the  soul :  war  tests 
the   magnanimity   of   man.       Sweet  is   the   humanity   that 


THE    FOLLY    OF    THE    SWORD     179 

spares  a  fallen  foe ;  gracious  the  compassion  that  tends 
his  wounds,  that  brings  even  a  cup  of  water  to  his  burning 
lips.  Granted.  But  is  there  not  a  heroism  of  a  grander 
mould — the  heroism  of  forbearance  ?  Is  not  the  humanity 
that  refuses  to  strike  a  nobler  virtue  than  the  late  pity  born 
of  violence  ?  Pretty  is  it  to  see  the  victor  with  salve  and 
lint  kneeling  at  his  bloody  trophy — a  maimed  and  agonised 
fellowman ;  but  surely  it  had  been  better  to  withhold  the 
blow  than  to  have  been  first  mischievous,  to  be  afterwards 
humane. 

That  nations  professing  a  belief  in  Christ  should  couple 
glory  with  war  is  monstrous  blasphemy.  Their  faith,  their 
professing  faith,  is — "  Love  one  another  "  ;  their  practice  is 
to — cut  throats  ;  and  more,  to  bribe  and  hoodwink  men  to 
the  wickedness,  the  trade  of  blood  is  magnified  into  a 
virtue.  We  pray  against  battle,  and  glorify  the  deeds  of 
death.  We  say  beautiful  are  the  ways  of  peace,  and  then 
cocker  ourselves  upon  our  perfect  doings  in  the  art  of 
man-slaying.  Let  us  then  cease  to  pay  the  sacrifice  of 
admiration  to  the  demon — War  ;  let  us  not  acknowledge 
him  as  a  mighty  and  majestic  principle,  but,  at  the  very 
best,  a  grim  and  melancholy  necessity. 

But  there  always  has  been — there  always  will  be — war. 
It  is  inevitable ;  it  is  a  part  of  the  condition  of  human 
society.  Man  has  always  made  glory  to  himself  from  the 
destruction  of  his  fellow  ;  so  it  will  continue.  It  may  be 
very  pitiable  ;  would  it  were  otherwise  !  But  so  it  is,  and 
there  is  no  helping  it. 

Happily  we  are  slowly  killing  this  destructive  fallacy.  A 
long  breathing  time  of  peace  has  been  fatal  to  the  dread 
magnificence  of  glory.  Science  and  philosophy — povera  e 
nuda  jilosojia  ! — have  made  good  their  claims,  inducing 
man  to  believe  that  he  may  vindicate  the  divinity  of  his 
nature  otherwise  than  by  perpetrating  destruction.  He 
begins  to  think  there  is  a  better  glory  in  the  communication 


i8o    THE    FOLLY    OF    THE    SWORD 

of  triumphs  of  the  mind,  than  in  the  clash  of  steel  and  the 
roar  of  artillery.  At  the  present  moment  a  society,  em- 
bracing men  of  distant  nations — "  natural  enemies,"  as  the 
old  wicked  cant  of  the  old  patriotism  had  it — is  at  work 
plucking  the  plumes  from  Glory,  unbracing  his  armour, 
and  divesting  the  ogre  of  all  that  dazzled  foolish  and 
unthinking  men,  showing  the  rascal  in  his  natural  hideous- 
ness,  in  all  his  base  deformity.  Some,  too,  are  calculating 
the  cost  of  Glory's  table  :  some  showing  what  an  appetite 
the  demon  has,  devouring  at  a  meal  the  substance  of  these 
thousand  sons  of  industry — yea,  eating  up  the  wealth  of 
kingdoms.  And  thus  by  degrees  are  men  beginning  to 
look  upon  this  god  Glory  as  no  more  than  a  finely-trapped 
Sawney  Bean — a  monster  and  a  destroyer — a  nuisance — a 
noisy  lie. 


THE  GREENWICH  PENSIONER 


A  Greenwich  pensioner !  Did  any  of  my  readers  ever 
ponder  on  that  strange  composition  of  battered  humanity 
and  blue  serge  ?  Did  they  never  feel  a  something  approach- 
ing very  near  gratitude  on  passing,  in  the  metropolis,  a 
Greenwich  pensioner,  who,  with  his  honest,  carved  out, 
unabashed  front,  looks  as  bluntly  and  as  wonderingly  at  the 
bustle  and  splendour  around  him  as  does  an  unsophisticated 
wether  suddenly  removed  from  South  Downs  to  Cheapside, 
whilst  shaking  his  woollen  coat  beneath  the  whip  of  the 
coachman  to  the  Lord  Mayor.  What  a  mixture  of  gravity 
and  wonderment  is  in  the  poor  brute's  countenance  !  how 
with  its  meek,  uplifted  head  it  stares  at  the  effulgent  vehicle, 
— runs  leaping  at  the  coach-wheels,  mistaking  them  for 
hurdles, — falls,  awe-struck,  back,  at  the  gilt  and  beavered 
greatness  of  the  footman's  cocked  hat, — then,  suddenly 
awakened  from  its  amazement  by  the  lurcher's  teeth,  or 
the  driver's  stick,  makes  an  unlucky  spring  of  some  three 


i82  THE    GREENWICH    PENSIONER 

feet  into  the  air,  catches  a  glance  of  its  figure  in  the 
mirrored  walls  of  a  silk  mercer,  and,  startled  at  the  sight, 
dashes  through  the  first  court, — carrying  perhaps  a  few 
yards  upon  its  back  some  red-faced,  nankeen-gaitered  little 
stockbroker,  whose  spattered  small  clothes  are  for  a  time 
unregarded  in  the  mighty  rush  of  drovers,  butchers,  dogs, 
and  idlers. 

Now  such  is  the  real  Greenwich  pensioner.  When  I  say 
real,  I  mean  one  who  abhors  London  worse  than  he  does  a 
Frenchman ;  who  thinks  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  in  it, 
unless,  indeed,  it  be  Nelson's  tomb,  in  St  Paul's,  or  the 
"  Ship "  public-house,  in  Tooley  Street.  London  is  to 
him  a  never-failing  source  of  merriment  ;  that  is,  whilst  he 
is  out  of  it.  He  sits  at  Greenwich,  and  looking  as  sagely 
as  a  starling  ere  he  snaps  at  a  fly,  at  the  piled-up  clouds 
of  smoke  hanging  over  the  metropolis,  or,  indeed,  almost 
propped  upon  its  chimney-pots,  and,  stretching  forth  his 
stick,  significantly  points  them  out  to  his  former  shipmates, 
asking  them  if  they  do  not  think  "  there  is  something  dark 
over  there — something  of  an  *  ox-eye  '  to  the  west  ?  "  He, 
indeed,  never  ventures  to  London,  unless  it  be  for  a  fresh 
supply  of  tobacco,  or  to  pay  a  quarterly  visit  to  his  grand- 
daughter, the  upper  housemaid  in  a  gentleman's  family, — 
and  who,  indeed,  thinks  with  horror  upon  his  call,  because 
the  neighbours  laugh  at  the  cocked  hat  and  the  shoe- 
buckles  of  her  relative ;  but  principally  because  Richard, 
the  baker's  young  man,  declares  he  hates  all  sailors.  The 
visit  is  never  a  very  lengthened  one,  especially  if  the  girl 
lives  far  to  the  west ;  for  her  grandfather  has  to  call  upon 
Will  Somebody,  who  set  up,  with  his  prize-money,  a 
public-house  in  Wapping.  So  ofF  he  starts,  hurries  up  the 
Strand,  touches  his  hat  from  a  point  of  principle  as  he 
nears  Somerset  House  ;  puts  out  more  canvas,  and  away 
for  Temple  Bar.  The  pensioner  has  not  yet,  however,  sat 
for  his  picture. 


THE    GREENWICH    PENSIONER   183 

We  have  all  read  of  crabs  being  despoiled  of  their  claws, 
locusts  of  their  entrails,  and  turtles  of  their  brains,  receiving 
in  lieu  thereof  a  pellet  of  cotton,  and  yet  retaining  life,  and 
appearing,  in  the  words  of  the  experimentalising  and  soft- 
hearted naturalist,  "very  lively  and  comfortable."1  Now, 
the  real  Greenwich  pensioner  distances  all  these ;  he  is, 
indeed,  an  engima:  nature  knows  not  what  to  make  of 
him.  He  hath  been  suspended,  like  a  school-boy's  bob- 
cherry,  a  hundred  times  over  the  chaps  of  death,  and  yet 
still  been  snatched  away  by  the  hand  of  Providence — to 
whom,  indeed,  his  many  hurts  and  dangers  have  especially 
endeared  him.  Ye  of  the  "  land  interest,"  ye  soft-faced 
young  sparks,  who  think  with  terror  upon  a  razor  on  a 
frosty  morning, — ye  suffering  old  gentlemen,  who  pause  at 
a  linen-draper's,  and  pass  the  flannel  between  your  fingers, 
as  time  verges  towards  October — ye  martyrs  to  a  winter 
cough,  ye  racked  with  a  quarterly  toothache — all  ye  of 
household  ailings,  look  upon  this  hacked,  shivered  piece  of 
clay,  this  Greenwich  pensioner  : — consider  of  how  many  of 
his  powers  he  is  despoiled — see  where  the  cutlass  and  the 
boarding-spike  have  ploughed  up  and  pierced  his  flesh  ;  see 
where  the  bullet  has  glanced,  singeing  by  ;  and  when  you 
have  reckoned  up — if  they  are  to  be  reckoned — his  many 
scars,  above  all,  look  at  his  hard,  contented,  weather- 
barnacled  face,  and  then,  gentle  spectators,  complain  of 
your  rheums,  your  joint-twitchings,  and  your  corns  ! 

Why,  this  Greenwich  pensioner  is  in  himself  a  record 
of  the  last  forty  years'  war.  He  is  a  breathing  volume  of 
naval  history  :  not  an  event  but  is  somewhere  indented  in 
him  with  steel  or  lead  :  he  has  been  the  stick  in  which 
the  English  Mars  has  notched  his  cricket  matches,  when 
twenty-four  pounders  were  balls,  and  mainmasts  wickets. 
See,  in  his  blinded  eye  is  Howe's  victory  on  the  glorious 
First  of  June  ;  that  stump  of  what  was  once  an  arm  is  Nile  ; 
1  See  Vaillant  and  Redi. 


184THE    GREENWICH    PENSIONER 

and  in  his  wooden  leg  read  Trafalgar.  As  to  his  scars,  a 
gallant  action,  or  a  desperate  cutting  out  is  noted  in  every 
one  of  them.  And  what  was  the  old  fellow's  only  wish, 
as  with  a  shattered  knee  he  lay  in  the  cock-pit  under  the 
surgeon's  hand — what  was  his  earnest  supplication  to  the 
wet-eyed  messmate  who  bore  him  down  the  hatchway  ? 
Simply  that  he  would  save  him  one  of  the  splinters  of  the 
mainmast  of  the  Victory,  to  make  of  it  a  leg  for  Sundays  ! 
His  wish  was  granted  ;  and  at  Greenwich,  always  on  the 
seventh  day,  and  also  on  the  2ist  of  October,  is  he  to  be 
seen,  propped  upon  the  inestimable  splinter,  which  from 
labour,  time,  and  beeswax,  has  taken  the  dark  glossiness  of 
mahogany.  What  a  face  he  has  !  What  a  certain  conscious- 
ness of  his  superiority  on  his  own  element  at  times  puffs  out 
his  lip,  and  gives  a  sudden  twitch  to  his  head  !  But  ask 
him  in  what  quarter  sets  the  wind — and  note,  how  with  his 
one  eye  he  will  glance  at  you  from  top  to  toe ;  and,  with- 
out ever  raising  his  head  or  hand  to  make  a  self-inquiry, 
answers  you  at  once,  as  though  it  was  a  question  he  was 
already  prepared  for  !  And  so,  indeed,  he  is  ;  it  being  his 
first  business,  on  rising,  to  consult  the  weather.  The  only 
way  to  gain  his  entire  confidence,  is  at  once  frankly  to  avow 
your  utter  ignorance,  and  his  superiority  ;  and  then,  after  he 
has  leered  at  you  with  an  eye  in  which  there  is  a  meeting  of 
contempt,  good-humour,  and  self-importance,  he  is  wholly 
your  own  ;  and  will  straightway  launch  into  the  South  Seas, 
coast  along  the  shores  of  Guinea, — where,  by-the-bye,  he 
will  tell  you  he  once  fell  in  love  with  a  negress,  who,  how- 
ever, jilted  him  for  the  cook — and  then  he  will  launch  out 
about  Admiral  Duncan — take  you  a  voyage  with  him  round 
Cape  Horn,  where  a  mermaid  appeared,  and  sang  a  song  to 
the  ship's  crew  ;  and  who,  indeed,  blew  aside  all  the  musket 
shots  that  were  ungallantly  fired  at  her  in  requital  of  her 
melody.  But  our  pensioner  has  one  particular  story ;  hear 
him  through  that,  suffer  yourself  to  be  wholly  astounded  at 


THE    GREENWICH    PENSIONER  185 

its  recital,  and,  if  you  were  not  a  landsman,  he  would 
instantly  greet  you  as  his  dearest  friend.  The  heroes  of 
this  same  story  are,  our  pensioner  and  a  shark  :  a  tremend- 
ous shark  that  used  to  be  the  terror  of  the  harbour  of  St 
Thomas's.  Upon  this  shark,  and  the  piece  of  the  main- 
mast of  the  Victory,  is  our  pensioner  content  to  rest  all  his 
importance  during  his  life,  and  his  fame  with  posterity.  He 
will  tell  you  that  he,  being  caterer  of  the  mess,  let  fall  a 
piece  of  beef  out  at  the  port-hole,  which  this  terrible  shark 
received  into  its  jaws,  and  twisted  its  body  most  provok- 
ingly  at  the  delicious  mouthful.  Hereupon  our  pensioner 
— it  was  before,  he  reminds  you,  he  had  lost  a  limb — asks 
leave  of  the  first  lieutenant  (for  the  captain  was  ashore)  to 
have  a  bout  with  the  shark  :  leave  being  granted,  all  the 
crew  are  quickly  in  the  shrouds,  and  upon  the  hammock 
netting,  to  see  Tom  "tackle  the  shark."  Our  pensioner 
now  enters  into  a  minute  detail  of  how,  having  armed  him- 
self with  a  long  knife,  he  jumped  overboard,  dived  under 
the  shark,  whom  he  saw  approaching  with  distended  jaws, 
and  inflicted  a  tremendous  wound  with  the  knife  in  the  belly 
of  the  fish  ;  this  is  repeated  thrice,  when  the  shark  turns 
itself  upon  its  back — a  boat  is  let  down,  and  both  the  con- 
queror and  the  conquered  are  quickly  received  upon  deck. 
You  are  doubtless  astonished  at  this ;  he,  however,  adds  to 
your  surprise  by  telling  you  that  the  mess  regaled  off  the 
piece  of  beef  recovered  from  the  fish  ;  be  more  astounded 
at  this,  although  mingle  no  doubt  in  your  astonishment,  and 
he  will  straightway  promise  some  day  to  treat  your  eyes 
with  a  sight  of  a  set  of  chequer  men,  cut  from  the  very 
dorsal  bone  of  the  immolated  shark  !  To  be  the  hearer  of 
a  sailor's  tale  is  something  like  undergoing  the  ancient 
ordeal  of  red-hot  ploughshares  ;  be  innocent  of  unbelief, 
and  you  may,  as  was  held,  journey  in  safety ;  doubt  the 
smallest  point,  and  you  are  quickly  withered  into  nought. 
What  an  odd  contrast  to  his  early  life  is  the  state  of  a 


i86THE    GREENWICH    PENSIONER 

Greenwich  pensioner !  It  is  as  though  a  part  of  the  angry 
and  foaming  sea  should  lie  stagnant  in  a  bathing  tub.  All 
his  business  is  to  recount  his  former  adventures — to  plod 
about,  and  look  with  a  disdainful  eye  at  trees  and  bricks  and 
mortar  ;  or,  when  he  would  indulge  in  a  serious  fit  of  spleen, 
to  walk  down  to  the  river's  side,  and  let  his  gall  feed  upon 
the  mishaps  of  London  apprentices,  who,  fearless  of  conse- 
quences, may  have  ventured  some  five  miles  from  home  in 
not  a  "trim-built  wherry."  A  Greenwich  pensioner  fresh 
from  sea  is  a  most  preposterous  creature ;  he  gets  up 
every  morning  for  a  week,  a  month,  and  still  finds  himself 
in  the  same  place  ;  he  knows  not  what  to  make  of  it — he 
feels  the  strangeness  of  his  situation,  and  would,  had  he 
the  patience  and  the  wit,  liken  himself  to  a  hundred 
unsettled  things.  Compare  him  to  a  hippopotamus  in  a 
gentleman's  park,  and  he  would  tell  you  he  had  in  his  day 
seen  a  hippopotamus,  and  then,  with  a  good-natured  grunt, 
acquiesce  in  the  resemblance  ;  or  to  a  jolly-boat  in  a  flower 
garden  ;  or  to  a  sea-gull  in  the  cage  of  a  canary  ;  or  to  a 
porpoise  upon  a  hearthrug ;  or  to  a  boatswain's  whistle  in  a 
nursery  ;  or  to  a  marling-spike  in  a  milliner's  workroom  ;  or 
a  tar-barrel  in  a  confectioner's  ;  with  any  one  or  all  of  these 
misplaced  articles  would  our  unsettled  pensioner  sympathise, 
until  time  shall  have  reconciled  him  to  his  asylum ;  and 
even  then  his  fancy,  like  the  shells  upon  our  mantelpiece, 
will  sound  of  the  distant  and  the  dangerous  ocean.  At 
Greenwich,  however,  the  mutilated  old  sailor  has  time 
enough  to  indulge  in  the  recollection  of  his  early  days,  and, 
with  what  wisdom  he  may,  to  make  up  his  mind  to  meet  in 
another  world  those  whom  his  arm  may  have  sent  thither 
long  before.  Death,  at  length,  gently  lays  the  veteran  upon 
his  back — his  last  words,  as  the  sailor  puts  his  withered 
hand  upon  his  heart,  are  "  All's  well,"  and  sea  and  earth 
have  passed  away.  His  body,  which  had  been  for  forty 
years  a  bulwark  to  the  land,  now  demands  of  it  but  "two 


THE    GREENWICH    PENSIONER   187 

paces  of  the  vilest  earth  "  ;  and  if  aught  could  spring  from 
the  tomb  characteristic  of  its  inmate,  from  the  grave  of  the 
pensioner  would  arise  the  stout,  unbending  oak — it  would 
be  his  fitting  monument ;  and  the  carolling  of  the  birds  in 
its  branches  would  be  his  loud,  his  artless  epitaph. 

The  Greenwich  pensioner,  wherever  we  meet  with  him, 
is  a  fine,  quaint  memento  of  our  national  greatness,  and  our 
fortunate  locality.  We  should  look  upon  him  as  the  re- 
presentative of  Neptune,  and  bend  our  spirit  towards  him 
accordingly.  But  that  is  not  sufficient ;  we  have  individual 
acknowledgments  to  make  to  him  for  the  comforts  of  a  long 
safety.  Let  us  but  consider,  as  we  look  at  his  wooden  sup- 
porter, that  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  leg  the  cannon-ball 
might  have  scattered  us  in  our  tea  parlour — the  bullet  which 
deprived  him  of  his  orb  of  vision  might  have  stricken  Our 
Village  from  our  hand  whilst  ensconced  in  our  study ;  the 
cutlass  which  cleaved  his  shoulder  might  have  demolished 
our  china  vase,  or  our  globe  of  golden  fish  : — instead  of 
which,  hemmed  round  by  such  walls  of  stout  and  honest 
flesh,  we  have  lived  securely,  participating  in  every  peaceful 
and  domestic  comfort,  and  neither  heard  the  roar  of  the 
cannon  nor  seen  its  smoke.  Shakespeare  has  compared 
England  to  "  a  swan's  nest "  in  the  "  world's  pool  "  :  let  us 
be  nautical  in  our  similes,  and  liken  her  to  a  single  lemon 
kernel  in  a  huge  bowl  of  punch  :  who  is  it  that  has  prevented 
the  kernel  from  being  ladled  down  the  throat  of  despotism, 
from  becoming  but  an  atom  of  the  great,  loathsome  mass  ? — 
our  Greenwich  pensioner.  Who  has  kept  our  houses  from 
being  transformed  into  barracks  and  our  cabbage  markets 
into  parades? — again,  and  again,  let  it  be  answered,  the 
Greenwich  pensioner.  Reader,  if  the  next  time  you  see 
the  tar,  you  should  perchance  have  with  you  your  wife  and 
smiling  family,  think  that  if  their  tenderness  has  never  been 
shocked  by  scenes  of  blood  and  terror,  you  owe  such 
quietude  to  a  Greenwich  pensioner.      Indeed,  I  know  not 


188THE    GREENWICH    PENSIONER 

if  a  triennial  progress  of  the  Greenwich  establishment 
through  the  whole  kingdom  would  not  be  attended  with 
the  most  beneficial  effects — fathers  would  teach  their  little 
ones  to  lisp  thanksgivings  unto  God  that  they  were  born  in 
England,  as  reminded  of  their  happy  superiority  by  the 
withered  form  of  every  Greenwich  pensioner. 


THE  DRILL  SERGEANT 


Shall  we  view  our  subject  through  the  glasses  of  philo- 
sophy ?  Precious  microscopic  glasses,  by  which  we  look 
into  the  exquisite  order  of  a  bee's  weapon,  which  shames 
the  ruggedness  of  that  vaunted  wonder  of  man's  hands — a 
Whitechapel  needle.  By  which  the  superfine  coat  of  the 
unworthy  appears  but  as  a  vile  complication  of  coarse  hemp- 
strings  ;  by  which  we  look  into  the  heart  that  to  the  naked 
eye  displays  a  tenanted  cherub,  with  voice  of  music  and 
wings  of  light,  but  find  a  weak-eyed  little  monster,  with 
squeak  of  mouse  and  pinions  of  leather.  O,  glorious  spec- 
tacles !  which  show  palaces  not  entirely  as  resting-places 
for  divinities — many  laurels  as  nettles,  stinging  what  they 
are  fancied  to  adorn — Fame's  trumpet,  a  penny  whistle 
blown  by  Asthma — the  awful  person  of  Ceremony,  a 
Merry-Andrew  stricken  grave — a  grand  review-day,  a 
game  at  ninepins  on  an  extensive  scale — a  levee,  a  triumph 
of  the  laceman  and  jeweller — a  court  ode,  a  verbose  receipt 
for  wages — "  honourable  gentleman,"  convicted  scoundrel — ■ 

"learned  friend,"  stupid  opponent — a  prison,  a  temporary 

189 


190        THE    DRILL    SERGEANT 

retirement  from  noise — a  glass  of  spring  water,  a  "  cup  of 
sack  " — an  ugly  face,  God's  own  handiwork — a  handsome 
one,  nothing  more — noble  blood,  of  the  same  hue  as  a 
carter's — a  black  parish  coffin,  a  couch  of  crystal — a  grave, 
a  place  of  rest — consecrated  earth,  the  whole  globe— a 
tombstone,  work  for  the  mason — a  pompous  epitaph,  the 
toil  of  a  liar !  This  transformation — or  rather,  this  show- 
ing of  reality — is  the  result  of  using  the  glasses  of  philosophy. 
Without  the  common  microscope  we  could  not  know  how 
certain  insects  respired,  whether  at  the  mouth  or  shoulders ; 
wanting  philosophy's  optic,  we  should  be  in  like  ignorance 
of  the  source  of  being  in  some  men — for  all  exist  not  by 
the  same  laws.  To  the  naked  eye,  indeed,  there  appears 
no  difference  ;  but  to  the  spectacled  orb  of  philosophy  it  is 
shown  that  many  men  respire,  not  by  inward  organisation, 
but  by  external  and  adventitious  instruments.  Let  those 
who  are  sceptical  on  this  position  consider  for  a  moment 
the  bearing  of  a  thorough-paced  coxcomb  :  does  he  breathe 
from  his  lungs  ?  No  ;  but  from  his  habiliments.  His  coat, 
cravat,  boots — yea,  his  spurs,  are  the  sources  of  his  being, 
his  dignity,  his  action.  Nay,  some  men  take  all  their  life 
from  a  riband  at  their  button-hole,  or  a  garter  at  their  leg. 
— Our  Drill  Sergeant  takes  it  from  his  rattan. 

I  know  that  much  of  this  may  be  deemed  foreign  to  the 
purpose.  To  those  who  so  conclude,  I  say — A  common 
wire-dancer  gives  not  his  grand  feat  without  many  little 
nick-nack  preparations.  When  we  visit  the  Egyptian 
Hall,  that  grand  emporium  of  monsters,  we  do  not  step 
from  the  pavement  into  the  show-room,  but  are  wisely 
made  to  thread  two  or  three  passages  for  the  better  excita- 
tion of  our  feelings.  And  shall  my  Drill  Sergeant  have 
not  the  common  observance  paid  to  a  mermaid  ?  I  trust  I 
have  more  respect  for  my  subject,  and  the  army  in  general. 
If  any  one  of  my  readers,  when  he  glanced  at  the  title, 
thought  to  meet  with  the  Sergeant  standing  bolt  upright  at 


THE    DRILL    SERGEANT         191 

the  beginning  of  the  line,  like  the  sentinel  at  Buckingham 
Gate,  I  luxuriate  in  his  disappointment. 

To  be  candid  :  I  had  laid  down  no  form  for  my  begin- 
ning ;  so  I  thought  a  caper  or  two  upon  philosophy  would 
not  be  amiss,  trusting  eventually  to  drop  upon  my  subject. 

This  is  a  trick  frequently  played  by .      However,  to 

business. 

We  must  contemplate  the  Drill  Sergeant  at  a  distance  : 
there  is  no  closing  with  him.  A  painter  would  decline  a 
chair  in  the  tiger's  den,  asserting  that  he  could  take  the 
animal's  stripes  equally  well  through  the  bars.  Even  so 
will  I  take  the  stripes  of  our  Sergeant.  First,  to  consider 
his  appearance,  or  rather  the  discipline  by  which  his  u  thews 
and  muscles  "  deport  themselves.  He  has  a  vile,  cat-like 
leer  of  the  eye,  that  makes  us  retreat  back  a  few  paces,  and 
rub  our  palms,  to  be  assured  the  knave  has  not  secretly 
placed  in  one  of  them  a  shilling.  We  tremble,  and  for 
once  are  afraid  to  meet  the  king's  countenance — (I  am 
adding  to  the  awful  attributes  of  the  Drill  Sergeant  the 
fearful  privilege  of  recruiting).  We  shrink,  lest  he  has 
mentally  approved  of  us  as  being  worthy  of  ball  cartridge. 
He  glances  towards  our  leg,  and  we  cannot  but  feel  that  he 
is  thinking  how  it  would  look  in  a  black  gaiter.  At  this 
moment  we  take  courage,  and,  valiantly  lifting  off  our  hat, 
pass  our  luxuriant  curls  through  our  four  fingers — we  are 
petrified  ;  for  we  see  by  his  chuckle  that  he  has  already 
doomed  our  tresses  to  the  scissors  of  the  barrack-barber. 
We  are  at  once  about  to  take  to  our  legs,  when,  turning 
round,  we  see  something  under  a  middle-sized  man,  looking 
over  our  head.  On  this  we  feel  our  safety,  and  triumph 
in  the  glory  of  five  feet  one.  Something  must  always  be 
allowed  for  weakness — something  for  vanity  ;  which,  in- 
deed, philosophers  denominate  the  greatest  weakness. 
Hence  all  these  cogitations,  foolishly  attributed  by  the 
little  individual  to  the  Sergeant,  arise  from  the  civil  man's 


192         THE    DRILL    SERGEANT 

self-conceit ;  the  Sergeant  always  treating  with  ineffable 
contempt  persons  of  a  certain  size.  And  here  may  be 
remarked  the  astonishing  capacity  of  our  Sergeant  in  judging 
of  human  altitude.  Ere  George  Bidder  can  enumerate  the 
virtues  of  King  Ferdinand,  our  Sergeant  will  sum  up  the 
exact  height  of  a  man,  duly  allowing  for  his  pumps  and 
silk  stockings.  Strive  to  mystify  the  question,  and  the 
ability  of  the  Sergeant  mocks  the  endeavour  ;  for,  he  will, 
on  a  minute's  notice,  resolve  how  many  feet  of  martial  flesh 
are  in  a  complete  square,  after  including  the  triangle,  fife, 
and  drummer  lads,  and  deducting  some  of  the  boy  officers. 
Thus,  five-feet-eight  reader,  if  thou  wouldst  enjoy  the 
pranks  of  the  Sergeant,  unmolested  by  his  eye,  teach  thy 
leg  to  mimic  lameness :  or,  if  easier,  cough  consumptively. 

I  would  wish  to  convey  a  striking  resemblance  of  our 
Drill  Sergeant  on  duty,  when  you  would  swear  by  his  gait 
that  this  glorious  earth  was  wholly  composed  of  spring 
wires,  so  elastic  are  his  soles.  It  is  a  motion  unparalleled 
either  in  the  natural  or  artificial  world  ;  it  is  a  movement 
by  itself — like  the  swoop  of  the  eagle,  the  waddle  of  the 
duck,  the  fleetness  of  the  greyhound,  or  the  hop  of  the  frog. 
And  yet,  on  intense  consideration,  I  think  I  have  seen 
something  approximating  to  the  bearing  of  our  Drill 
Sergeant.  What  think  you  of  the  manner  of  a  pug  dog 
in  a  dropsy,  exposed  for  air  on  a  nipping  December 
morning,  his  black  nose  turning  almost  white  with  indigna- 
tion at  the  coldness  of  the  flags  ? — There  certainly  is  a 
resemblance  ;  there  is  dignity  in  both  animals,  albeit  to  the 
daring  eye  of  a  grotesque  character.  It  must,  however, 
be  owned,  that  on  great  occasions  our  Sergeant  can  alter  his 
deportment.  It  is  not  in  the  nature  of  things  to  be  always 
strained  to  the  highest :  the  distended  skin  of  the  serpent 
at  times  falls  into  amiable  and  social  wrinkles ;  an  arrant 
shrew  may  sometimes  be  caught  singing  "  Sweet  Home  !  " 
the  bow-string  of  a  William  Tell  may  be  doubtless  as  relaxed 


THE    DRILL    SERGEANT         193 

and  tuneless  as  the  instrument  of  a  Haymarket  fiddler  ; — 
and  shall  not  our  Sergeant  unbend  ?  He  does  break 
himself  up  from  the  stiffness  of  parade ;  for  see  him  when 
the  draughts  of  mine  hostess  hath  diluted  some  portion  of 
military  starch,  and  he  no  longer  holds  his  head  like  a 
game-cock,  taking  his  morning's  potation  ;  see  him  then, 
and  own  that  even  a  Sergeant  may  be  amiable.  Is  he  not 
the  very  model  of  elegant  ease  ?  He  is,  indeed,  unbent ; 
for  his  limbs  swing  loosely  as  hung  ramrods.  Our  Sergeant 
can  now  talk  ;  his  tongue  hath  overleapt  the  two  barriers, 
"  Attention  !  "  and  "  Stand  at  ease  !  "  and  rambles  wildly 
from  Egypt  to  Waterloo.  And  if  it  should  happen  that  the 
pretty  barmaid  be  niece  to  the  landlady,  mark  how  the 
Sergeant  probes  for  her  feelings  with  charged  bayonets — 
how  he  will  try  to  smite  her  gentle  ear  with  a  discharge  of 
artillery — swear  that  he  hath  had  twenty  wounds  under  his 
coat,  although  very  politically  adding  that  they  have  left 
him  not  a  bit  the  worse  man.  Then,  if  the  damsel  still 
continue  untouched,  taking  orders  with  a  calm  air,  our 
Sergeant  hints  in  a  whisper,  audible  to  the  dozing  watch- 
man at  the  door,  something  about  a  Spanish  widow  at 
Saragossa  ;  adding  very  loudly,  "  But  no — I  was  always 
for  true  love !  "  adorning  the  beautiful  edifice  of  principle 
with  a  flowery  oath.  He  then  begins  a  sentiment,  and,  at 
a  loss,  dives  for  the  conclusion  to  it  in  a  pot  of  ale.  If 
there  happen  to  be  four  or  five  privates  in  the  room,  our 
Sergeant  increases  in  importance  from  the  circumstance — 
just  as  a  cat  becomes  great  from  the  introduction  of  a  litter 
of  puppies.  Our  Sergeant  is  more  than  ever  the  leading 
gander  of  the  flock — the  king-herring  of  the  shoal — the 
blue-bottle  of  the  swarm — the  pebble  of  the  sand — the  G 
of  the  gamut.  He  has  now  additional  hearers  of  the  tales 
of  his  prowess,  and,  if  he  but  give  the  wink,  companions 
who  saw  him  face  the  breach  and  spike  the  cannon.  His 
rank  next  becomes  the  subject  of  discussion  ;  and  looking 

N 


i94         THE    DRILL    SERGEANT 

very  complacently  at  his  arm,  he  tells  of  some  dreadful 
exploit  in  which  he  earned  his  stripes.  "  And  doubtless, 
Sergeant,  not  before  you  deserved  them,"  ventures  a  small, 
quiet  wight  in  the  corner,  who  will  have  his  fling,  though  at 
the  expense  of  his  liquor ;  for  ere  he  concludes  his  remark 
he  gives  the  Sergeant  his  glass — just  as  a  schoolboy,  who 
twitches  the  trunk  of  an  elephant,  throws  to  the  animal  a 
peace-offering  of  apples — whilst  the  privates  inwardly  laugh 
at  the  joke,  and  get  rebuked  for  again  enjoying  it  on  parade 
to-morrow  morning.  Just  as  the  Sergeant's  opponents  are 
nearly  all  slaughtered,  a  little  Italian  boy,  bearing  a  tortoise, 
adroitly  glides  into  the  room  to  display  the  testaceous 
wonder  ;  or  he  has  with  him  a  bust  of  Napoleon,  at  which 
our  Sergeant  bristles  up,  looking,  indeed,  seriously  fierce  at 
plaster  of  Paris.  Here  he  utters  some  half-audible  wish 
that  he  had  not  received  a  bullet  in  the  last  charge,  and 
then —  Now,  however,  our  Sergeant  takes  an  opportunity 
to  pour  forth  his  learning — he  mangles  five  words  of 
French  ;  the  Italian  shakes  his  head,  and  holds  forth  his 
hand  ;  the  Sergeant  swears  at  him  for  an  impostor,  ignorant 
of  his  own  language.  It  drawing  late,  our  Sergeant  calls 
for  his  reckoning,  and,  learning  the  amount,  with  an  affected 
air  of  destitution  avows  he  has  no  money ;  he  has  not  a 
piece  of  silver  about  him,  unless  it  be  that  at  his  breast — 
and  here  he  carelessly  lifts  up  with  one  finger  a  Waterloo 
medal  j — then  he  draws  out  a  watch,  once  the  property  of  a 
French  general  slain  by  our  Sergeant,  and  asks  if  that  will 
serve  for  the  amount  ?  At  length,  however,  the  money 
being  shaken  from  a  yellow  silk  purse,  our  Sergeant,  after  a 
salutary  admonition  to  the  privates,  goes  off,  as  he  says,  to 
visit  a  friend  in  the  Ordnance. 

Now  this  is  the  utmost  stretch  of  our  Sergeant's  amia- 
bility ;  and  he  departs  with  a  consciousness  of  having  made 
himself  remarkably  agreeable,  at  the  same  time  that  he  has 
maintained  the  proper  dignity  of  the  army.     To-morrow  he 


THE    DRILL    SERGEANT         197 

is  stiff  and  stately  again,  performing  his  old  duty  of  setting 
up  in  due  order  men  for  the  sport  of  War,  that  fearful 
skittle-player.  And,  indeed,  how  great  must  be  the  satis- 
faction of  the  Drill  Sergeant  when  he  thinks  that,  by 
his  kindly  solicitude,  his  Majesty's  subjects  will  "  die 
with  decency"  and  "in  close  order."  Soothing  reflec- 
tion ! 

We  may  liken  a  Recruiting  Sergeant  to  a  sturdy  woodman 
— a  Drill  Sergeant  to  a  carpenter.  Let  us  take  a  dozen 
vigorous  young  elms,  with  the  same  number  of  bluff-cheeked, 
straddling  rustics.  How  picturesque  and  inviting  do  the 
green  waving  elms  appear !  Whilst  we  look  at  them  our 
love  and  admiration  of  the  natural  so  wholly  possess  us  that 
we  cannot  for  a  moment  bring  ourselves  to  imagine  the 
most  beautiful  offspring  of  teeming  earth  cut  up  into  boot- 
jacks or  broom-handles  :  in  the  very  idea  there  is  sacrilege  to 
the  sylvan  deities.  The  woodman,  however,  lays  the  axe  to 
the  elms  (the  forest  groans  at  the  slaughter)  ;  the  carpenter 
comes  up  with  his  basket  of  tools  across  his  shoulder  ;  and 
at  a  Christmas  dinner  we  may  by  chance  admire  the  extra- 
ordinary polish  of  our  eating  knife,  little  thinking  it  owes  its 
lustre  to  the  elm  which  shadowed  us  at  midsummer.  Now 
for  our  rustics.  We  meet  them  in  green  lanes,  striding  like 
young  ogres — carelessness  in  their  very  hat-buckles — a  scorn 
of  ceremony  in  the  significant  tuck-up  of  their  smock-frock. 
The  Recruiting  Sergeant  spirits  them  away  from  fields  to 
which  they  were  the  chief  adornment,  and  the  Drill  Sergeant 
begins  his  labour. 

And  now,  reader,  behold  some  martial  carpentry  and 
joinery.  Our  Drill  Sergeant  hath  but  few  implements  :  as 
eye,  voice,  hand,  leg,  rattan.  These  few  tools  serve  him  for 
every  purpose,  and  with  them  he  brings  down  a  human 
carcass,  though  at  first  as  unwieldy  as  a  bull,  to  the  slimness 
and  elegance  of  the  roe.  There  are  the  dozen  misshapen 
logs  before  him  ;  the  foliage  of  their  heads  gone  with  the 


198        THE    DRILL    SERGEANT 

elm  leaves,  as  also  their  bark — their  "rough  pash," — the 
frocks  and  wide  breeches. 

Mercy  on  us !  there  was  a  stroke  of  handiwork !  the 
Sergeant  with  but  one  word  has  driven  a  wedge  into  the 
very  breast  of  that  pale-looking  youngster,  whose  eyelid 
shakes  as  though  it  would  dam  up  a  tear  !  Perhaps  the 
poor  wretch  is  now  thinking  of  yellow  corn  and  harvest 
home.  Another  skilful  touch,  and  the  Sergeant  hath  fairly 
chiselled  away  some  inches  of  the  shoulder  of  that  flaxen- 
headed  tyro :  and  see  how  he  is  rounding  off  that  mottled 
set  of  knuckles,  whilst  the  owner  redly,  but  dumbly,  sym- 
pathises with  their  sufferings.  There  is  no  part  left 
untouched  by  our  Sergeant;  he  by  turns,  saws,  planes, 
pierces,  and  thumps  every  limb  and  every  joint ;  applies 
scouring  paper  to  any  little  knot  or  ruggedness,  until  man, 
glorious  man,  the  "  paragon  of  animals,"  fears  no  competi- 
tion in  stateliness  of  march,  or  glibness  of  movement,  from 
either  peacock  or  Punch. 

The  Drill  Sergeant  hath  but  little  complacency  in  him  ; 
he  is  a  thing  to  be  reverenced,  not  doated  upon  ;  we  fear 
him  and  his  mysteries ;  even  his  good  humour  startles,  for 
it  is  at  once  as  blustering  and  as  insignificant  as  a  report  of 
a  blank  cartridge.  Again,  I  say,  the  Drill  Sergeant  is  to  be 
approached  with  awe ;  smirking  flies  the  majesty  of  his 
rattan.  He  is  the  despot  of  joints  ;  and  we  rub  our  hands 
with  glee,  and  our  very  toes  glow  again,  when  we  reflect 
they  are  not  of  his  dominions. 


CHAPTER  I 


By  the  late  Captain  Barabbas  Whitefeather.  Late  of 
the  body-guard  of  his  Majesty,  King  Carlos ; 
Treasurer  of  the  British  Wine  and  Vinegar 
Company ;  Trustee  for  the  protection  of  the 
River  Thames  from  incendiaries ;  principal  in- 
ventor of  Poyais  stock  ;  Ranger  of  St 
George's  Fields ;  original  Patentee  of  the 
Parachute  Conveyance  Association ;  Knight  of 
every  order  of  the  fleece  ;   Scamp  and  Cur. 

"  A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear." — Goldsmith. 


Edited  by  John  Jackdaw. 


The  editor  has  disciplined  himself  to  receive  with  becoming 
moderation  the  tremendous  expression  of  national  gratitude 
consequent  on  the  publication  of  this  valuable  work — the 
production  of  the  late  estimable  Captain  Barabbas  White- 

199 


200     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

feather.  It  was  discovered  among  many  other  papers 
accidentally  left  at  the  lodgings  of  the  deceased,  and  placed 
in  the  hands  of  the  editor  by  the  executors  of  the  lamented 
and — if  a  novel  epithet  may  be  applied  to  him — talented 
author. 

When  "  handbooks  "  devoted  to  the  lighter  elegancies, 
nay,  to  the  frivolities,  of  life  are  every  day  poured  down 
upon  a  thankful  generation,  it  would  indeed  be  to  incur  the 
charge  of  poltroonery  to  doubt  the  brilliant  success  of  the 
present  essay. 

The  philosophical  observer  who  has  witnessed  the  fervent 
welcome  accorded  by  a  British  public  to  "  The  Handbook 
of  Skittles,"  "  The  Handbook  of  Cheese-Toasting,"  «  The 
Handbook  of  Eel-Skinning,"  "  The  Handbook  of  Nutmeg- 
Grating,"  The  Handbook  of  Corn-Cutting,"  "  The  Hand- 
book of  Kitten-Drowning,"  and  other  productions  of  lesser 
pith  and  purpose, — the  philosophic  observer  cannot  but 
glow  with  the  sweetest  and  liveliest  feelings  of  anticipated 
pleasure  at  the  outburst  of  national  gratitude  acknowledging 
and  rejoicing  in  the  publication  of 

"The  Handbook  of  Swindling." 

Let  us  for  a  moment  consider  the  comprehensiveness  of 
the  subject.  Other  handbooks  have  their  merits  and  their 
uses  :  far  be  it  from  the  editor  to  detract  one  iota  from  their 
c'aims  upon  a  thoughtful  people ;  yet  it  must  be  conceded 
that  their  different  subjects  apply  rather  to  the  wants  of 
sections  of  the  public  than  to  the  public  in  its  integrity. 
For  instance,  how  few  rejoice  in  the  masculine  exercise  of 
skittles  !  Toasted  cheese,  albeit  the  favourite  diet  of  many 
of  Cyclopean  digestion,  is  sedulously  shunned  by  dyspeptic 
hundreds  of  thousands.  The  class  of  the  eel  -  skinning 
public  is  indeed  most  limited  ;  nutmeg  is  never  dreamt  of 
by  at  least  a  million  of  our  fellow-subjects  ;  a  million  more, 
it  is  our  cheerful  hope,  know  not  the  visitation  of  corns  ; 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     201 

whilst,  could  a  census  be  taken  of  the  number  of  kittens 
annually  sacrificed  by  drowning,  it  would  possibly  be 
discovered  that  not  one  British  subject  out  of  five  hundred 
is  ever  called  upon  to  perform  that  painful,  yet  necessary 
and  most  domestic  operation.  It  must  then  be  acknow- 
ledged that  all  handbooks  hitherto  published  are  more  or 
less  limited  in  their  application ;  but  for  "  The  Handbook 
of  Swindling," — why,  it  is  a  national  work  ;  a  vadc  mecum 
for  a  whole  people  ! 

It  was  the  intention  of  the  editor  to  dedicate  this  work  to 
some  illustrious  individual  worthy  of  the  distinction.  But 
so  many  candidates — all  equally  deserving  of  the  honour — 
with  claims  so  nicely  balanced,  rose  before  him,  that  the 
editor,  considering  it  would  be  invidious  to  many  to  select 
one  alone,  dedicates  the  book  to  the  nation  at  large.  Yes, 
he  gives  it  to  his  country ;  but  too  well  repaid  if  he  shall 
be  the  means  of  calling  from  the  working  day  road  of  life 
one  simple  traveller  to  the  pleasant  "primrose  path  "  made 
easier  and  laid  more  open  to  him  by  this  golden  volume. 

Breakneck  Steps, 
Old  Bailey. 


CHAPTER  I 

THE    READER    IS    INTRODUCED    TO    CAPTAIN    WhiTEFEATHEr's 
RELATIONS 

It  was  a  favourite  conviction  of  my  late  respected  uncle 
and  godfather,  Barabbas  Whitefeather — he  fell  in  the  very 
flower  of  his  age,  at  only  forty-five,  a  premature  victim  to 
the  insalubrity  of  Bermuda,  where  he  was  stationed  in  a 
very  public  capacity  by  the  British  Government — it  was, 
I  say,  a  pet  belief  of  the  sagacious  Barabbas  that  every 
man    had   within   him  what  I  think  heathen    philosophers 


202     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

have  called  a  particle  of  divine  gold  ;  but  which  my  uncle, 
in  the  fine  simplicity  of  his  nature,  and  at  the  same  time 
humanely  accommodating  his  language  to  the  lowest  under- 
standing of  his  species,  denominated  u  a  bit  of  the  swindler." 

Discriminating  reader,  Barabbas  Whitefeather  was  a  man 
of  homespun  wit,  who  chewed  not  his  words  until  they  had 
lost  all  their  original  form  and  vigour ;  no,  he  flung  them 
from  him  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  knows  he  is  laying 
down  a  guinea  of  the  best  mint  gold,  and  not  timidly  and 
sneakingly,  like  a  passer  of  gilt  copper. 

"  Every  man  has  within  him  a  bit  of  the  swindler  !  " 

The  sentence  fell  upon  me  in  the  days  of  my  earliest 
childhood ;  yes,  it  was  in  that  ductile,  happy,  and  suscep- 
tible season  of  life  that  the  words  of  my  uncle  Barabbas — 
precious  seed! — dropped  into  my  infant  heart,  where — but 
let  me  not  boast,  let  me  rather  indulge  in  the  luxury  of 
memory — yes,  suffer  me,  complying  reader,  to  carry  you 
into  the  presence  of  my  sainted  uncle :  bear  with  me  whilst 
with  affectionate  reverence  I  call  up  from  the  abyss  of  time 
the  interesting  shadow  of  Barabbas  Whitefeather. 

It  was  my  birthday — I  was  six  years  old.  I  had  been 
promised  that  that  day  should  be  distinguished  by  a  cir- 
cumstance which,  as  we  advance  in  life  and  become  involved 
in  the  meshes  of  the  world,  is  apt  to  be  forgotten,  albeit  of 
the  first  importance  at  the  time — I  was  to  be  breeched. 
/  was  not.  I  can  only  remember  that  a  cloud  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  fallen  upon  our  house — that  my  father 
would  come  home  long  after  the  lamb  had  lain  down  to 
rest,  and  would  still  leave  the  domestic  roof  before  the 
rising  of  the  lark,  that  his  temper,  generally  rough,  became 
much  rougher  ;  and  that,  only  a  few  days  before  my  birth- 
day, on  expressing  my  infantine  delights  at  the  trumpets 
blown  before  the  newly -arrived  judges,  he  rebuked  me 
with  unwonted  emphasis,  at  the  same  time  wishing  the 
trumpets  and  the  judges,  as  I  then  conceived,  very  oddly 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     203 

incorporated  with  one  another.  I  was  then  within  a  few 
days  of  six  years  old — I  was  a  fine,  tall,  plump  child,  and 
on  my  birthday  was  to  have  been  breeched.  The  neigh- 
bourhood called  for  it.  I  repeat  it,  my  birthday  came  and 
passed,  and  found  and  left  me  still  in  coats. 

That  day,  however,  was  ordained  to  be  the  most  event- 
ful of  my  life.  It  is  that  day  which,  if  the  world  shall 
continue  to  remember  the  deeds  of  Captain  Barabbas 
Whitefeather,  must  be  held  by  posterity  in  especial  respect. 
It  is  to  that  day  that  I  owe  everything  ;  and  what  I  owe, 
it  would  be  the  worst  of  affectation  in  the  world  to  deny 
or  to  forget.     To  proceed  with  my  history. 

"  Brab," — it  was  thus  my  father  was  wont  to  tamper 
with  the  euphony  of  Barabbas, — "  Brab,  nunkey  wants  to 
see  you ;  so  you  must  toddle  with  me." 

Some  weeks  had  elapsed  since  I  had  seen  uncle 
Barabbas  ;  and  at  his  name  visions  of  cakes  and  apples, 
peg-tops  and  whipping-tops,  rose  before  me.  Like 
Agesilaus,  Socrates,  Yorick,  and  other  men  whom  I  do 
not  hesitate  to  call  of  his  kidney,  my  uncle  would  chequer 
and  ameliorate  the  labour  of  public  life  by  sporting  with 
little  children.  "  He  hath  borne  me  on  his  back  a  thousand 
times."  I  was  of  course  delighted  at  the  prospect  of 
visiting  my  uncle  ;  but  was  at  the  same  time  made  to  wonder 
at  the  preparation  of  my  father,  who  carefully  bound  up 
one  of  his  eyes,  glued  large  whiskers  on  his  cheeks,  and 
otherwise  so  disguised  himself  that,  although  I  saw  him  do 
it,  I  could  scarcely  believe  it  was  he.  However,  I  thought 
it  was  all  to  have  some  game  with  Uncle  Barabbas — and  in 
my  childishness  crowed  with  laughter  at  anticipation  of  the 
sport. 

I  walked  with  my  father,  and  in  about  half-an-hour  came 
to  a  very  large  house,  a  place  I  had  never  seen  before :  for 
my  dear  mother,  always  fuming  about  fevers  and  measles, 
kept  me  close  at  home.     My  father,  suddenly  walking  very 


2o4     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

lame,  knocked  at  the  door,  and  through  a  colcl  that  had 
come  on  him  all  in  a  minute,  asked  hoarsely  enough  for  my 
uncle.  The  man  let  us  in,  and  then  another  man  went 
before  us  ;  and  then  I  knew  I  was  in  a  place  where  there 
were  heaps  of  gold  and  diamonds,  for  the  man  unlocked 
and  locked  again  at  least  a  dozen  doors.  I  give  my 
childish  impressions,  which  I  entreat  the  reader  not  to 
smile  at,  but  to  remember  the  simplicity  and  ingenuousness 
of  my  age.  Well,  after  a  time,  we  were  led  into  an  open 
court,  where  some  gentlemen  were  throwing  up  halfpence, 
and  two  on  a  bench  were  pushing  straws  ;  and  there  was 
one  dancing,  and  one  or  two  singing,  and  all  as  happy  as 
birds. 

I  looked  round  the  place  and  saw  uncle  Barabbas  smoking 
in  a  corner.  I  was  about  to  call  him  when  my  father  gave 
my  arm  such  a  pull  I  thought  it  was  broken  ;  and  so  I 
resolved  to  say  nothing,  but  to  wait  and  see  the  fun  that 
father  would  play  off  upon  uncle.  Sure  enough  Barabbas 
never  knew  him  ;  and  though  my  uncle  patted  me  upon  the 
head,  he  had,  I  thought,  forgotten  me,  for  he  gave  me 
nothing.  My  father  and  my  uncle  talked  together  for  a 
long  time  ;  when — I  see  my  uncle  now — Barabbas  suddenly 
brought  himself  up,  and  raising  his  head,  and  extending  his 
right  arm,  the  palm  open,  he  said  in  a  solemn  voice  : — 

"  Depend  upon  it,  every  man  has  within  him  a  bit  of  the 
swindler." 

My  father  shook  his  head  ;  whereupon  my  uncle,  for  he 
was  very  scholarly,  and  could  talk  for  an  hour  without 
stopping,  proceeded  as  follows  : — I  am  perfectly  certain  as 
to  the  words,  having  subsequently  found  the  whole  written 
speech  among  other  of  my  uncle's  papers ;  Barabbas,  like 
some  other  wits  and  orators,  carefully  putting  in  pen  and 
ink  any  brilliant  thought  that  struck  him — any  argument 
that  was  a  hobby  with  him,  that  he  might  at  proper  season 
extemporaneously  bring  it  forth  to  the  delight  and  astonish- 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     205 

mcnt    of  his   hearers.     My  father  shook  his  head  at  the 
dogma  of  my  uncle,  who,  without  stop,  continued  : — 

11  Are  you  so  ignorant  as  to  believe  in  the  deficiency 
of  mankind  in  general — to  imagine  that  nature  is  so  partial 
a  mother  as  to  dower  with  her  best  gifts  only  a  few  of  her 
children,  leaving  the  multitude  defenceless,  unarmed  ?  My 
dear  sir," — here  my  uncle  lowered  his  voice, — "amend 
your  ignorance — be  just  to  nature.  Do  you  see  tigers 
whelped  without  claws — elephants  calved  that  never  have 
tusks — rattlesnakes  hatched  with  no  stings  ?  Is  nature  so 
niggard — so  partial — so  unjust  ?  No — philosophers  and 
conquerors  have  made  their  marks,  and  signed  their  names 
to  the  fact — to  swindle  is  to  exhibit  the  peculiar  attribute 
of  the  human  animal  ;  it  is  at  once  the  triumph  and  dis- 
tinguishing faculty  of  the  race.  But  you  will  say,  do  all 
men  swindle  ?  and  I  ask,  do  all  snakes  sting — all  elephants 
gore  ?  There  is,  however,  an  unanswerable  argument  which 
proves  that  men,  when  gregarious,  are  inevitably  swindlers  ; 
at  least,  if  they  are  not,  let  not  the  failing  be  placed  to  their 
account ;  they  would  be,  if  they  might.  Let  me  put  a 
case.  You  recollect  Gloss,  the  retired  merchant? 
What  an  excellent  man  was  Gloss !  A  pattern  man 
to  make  a  whole  generation  by  !  Nobody  could  surpass 
him  in  what  is  called  honesty,  rectitude,  moral  propriety, 
and  other  gibberish.  Well,  Gloss  joins  a  *  Board';  he 
becomes  one  of  a  community ;  and,  immediately,  the 
latent  feeling  asserts  itself:  he  is  a  backbone  man  with  the 
rest  of  his  brotherhood  ;  and  though  as  simple  Gloss,  and 
not  a  member  of  the  *  board,'  he  is  the  same  as  ever,  yet 
when  acting  with  his  fellows,  when  one  of  the  body  corpor- 
ate, when  he  merges  the  man  Gloss  in  the  board  member, 
the  inherent  faculty  becomes  active,  and  he  gratifies  the 
instinct,  or  the  refined  reason,  or  whatever  men  agree  to 
call  it — and  complacently  swindles  with  the  rest.  He 
cannot    do    otherwise:    human    nature    is   tested    by  the 


206     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

occasion  ;  and  if,  under  the  circumstances,  he  refuse  to 
swindle,  he  ceases  to  be  a  man.  Swindling,  my  dear  sir  " 
— and  here  my  uncle  spoke  in  a  tremulous  voice,  and  my 
father  seemed  touched  by  the  emotion — "  Swindling,  my 
dear  sir,  has  indeed  a  far  more  comprehensive  meaning 
than  that  superficially  awarded  to  it  by,  possibly,  very 
respectable  people.  Good  soldiers  may  fight,  pillage,  and 
violate  under  a  banner,  and  yet,  in  truth,  shall  not  be  able 
to  read  and  interpret  the  legend  emblazoned  on  it." 

I  could  perceive  that  my  father  did  not  perfectly  under- 
stand this.  He,  therefore,  nodded  assentingly,  and  my 
uncle,  with  new  animation,  proceeded  : — 

"  When  I  reflect  on  the  extensive  and  subtle  operation  of 
the  faculty — when  I  perceive  that,  in  this  our  best  possible 
social  state,  it  is,  so  to  speak,  the  cement  that  keeps  society 
together  ;  the  bond  of  union  ;  the  very  salt  of  human  govern- 
ment— it  does,  I  confess  it,  irk  me  to  find  men  ungraciously 
deny  its  existence,  putting  off  its  triumphs  upon  other 
motives,  and  depriving  swindling  of  the  glory  of  its  deeds. 
Strange  perversion  of  human  intellect — laughable  contradic- 
tion of  moral  purposes !  Thus,  the  politician  flutters  at 
the  very  breath  of  swindler  ;  thus,  the  stockbroker  struts 
and  swells,  and  lays  his  hand  upon  his  waistcoat  with  a  blank 
look  of  wondering  innocence  at  the  slightest  allusion  to  the 
faculty  that  makes  a  man  of  him — to  which  he  owes  his 
carriage  and  country  house,  his  conservatories  and  his 
pineries  ;  and  above  all,  the  flattering  hope  of  calling  Lord 
Giggleton  son-in-law ;  his  lordship  being  over  head,  and, 
what  is  more,  over  ears  in  love  with  Arabella's  guineas. 
And  yet,  such  is  the  base,  the  black  ingratitude  of  human 
nature,  that  this  man,  this  most  adroit  and  lucky  stockbroker, 
starts  even  at  the  name  of  swindler  !  He  indignantly  denies 
the  slightest  obligation  to  the  higher  faculty — the  mens 
divinior  of  the  cabinet,  the  mart,  and  the  counting-house. 
Look  at  Sir  Godfrey  Measles,  the   illustrious  pork  con- 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     207 

tractor,  in  whom  our  brave  and  magnanimous  sailors  confide 
for  dinners.  Did  he  not  in  the  most  handsome  way  forfeit 
B  fine  to  his  king  and  country  for  having  failed  to  supply 
swine's  flesh  at  so  much  per  stone  ?  And  then,  having  paid 
his  fine  like  a  patriot  and  a  man, — did  he  not,  having  before 
bought  up  all  the  pork  to  be  had — did  he  not,  with  the 
gushing  feelings  of  a  philanthropist,  offer  it  at  three  times  the 
contract  price  ?  Now  what  was  this  ?  Men  who  veil  their 
meaning  in  allegory  may  say  that  Sir  Godfrey  Measles 
*  drove  his  pigs  to  a  fine  market.'  For  myself,  I  elevate 
the  homely  phrase  of  pig-driver  into  the  more  ennobling 
name  of  swindler.  Others  may  say  that  Sir  Godfrey  only 
traded — I  stick  to  my  belief;  I  say  he  swindled.  More  : 
I  reverence  him  for  the  act ;  my  only  deep  regret  is,  that 
he  should  have  failed  in  an  ingenuous  gratitude,  and  denied 
the  action  of  the  higher  principle.  I  have  long  looked  upon 
the  world,  and,  with  sorrow,  I  say  it,  in  nothing  do  the 
generations  of  successful  men  show  so  much  cold  and  callous 
ingratitude  as  in  their  treatment  of  their  guardian  genius, 
that  prettiest  of  Pucks,  that  best  of  Robin  Goodfellows,  that 
deftest  of  household  fairies,  hight  Swindling  !  " 

My  father  cast  his  one  eye  towards  his  eloquent  brother 
with  a  look  of  speaking  admiration  ;  and,  although  there 
was  a  pause,  did  not  presume  to  make  any  rejoinder.  My 
uncle  proceeded  : — 

"  But  why  number  examples  ?  Why  attempt  to  prove 
that  which  every  man,  if  he  would  but  consult  the  recesses 
of  his  own  bosom,  must  truly  know  ?  Ask  all  the  pro- 
fessions ;  demand  of  the  lawyer,  with  yellow,  studious  cheek, 
wherefore  he  should  coin  gold  out  of  little  strips  of  paper, 
written  over  by  youthful  scribes  at  two  or  three  shillings 
per  diem.  Request  him  to  give  you  the  philosophy  of 
costs — the  exquisite  meaning  of  appearance  and  declaration, 
and  reply  and  rejoinder,  and  all  the  thousand  terms  invented 
by  the  most  cunning  class  of  labourers,  the  overlookers  at 


208     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

the  building  of  Babel.  Ask  the  sleek  practitioner  to  what 
he  owes  his  fortune.  To  common-sense — to  justice- — to 
the  fair  and  rational  barter  of  labour  for  shillings?  If 
he  be  a  hypocrite — if  he  be  resolved  to  clap  in  with  the 
world,  and  carry  on  a  profitable  duplicity,  he  will  swell  like 
a  bull-frog  at  the  query,  and,  forgetful  of  his  knuckles,  will 
strike  his  heart,  answering  with  the  big-mouthed  '  Yes !  ' 
But  if  at  the  end  of  a  long  practice  there  should  by  miracle 
remain  in  that  attorney's  bosom  a  throb  of  truth,  he  will 
blandly,  yet  significantly  smile  at  the  words — the  counters 
men  play  with — common-sense  and  justice,  and  magnani- 
mously and  unblushingly  declare  his  debt  to — swindling ! 

"  Is  it  otherwise  with  the  physician,  who  sells  his  guesses 
for  truth,  and  doubts  and  doubts  a  patient  into  the  grave, 
whilst  his  medicinal  palm  is  open  for  the  guinea  ?  When 
the  apothecary  vends  cinnamon  and  peppermint  water  for 
elixir  vita,  doth  he  practise  a  noble  art  ?  Yea  ;  for,  safely 
and  successfully,  he — swindles. 

"  When  the  tradesman  —  his  housemaid  at  the  time 
perhaps  in  Bridewell  for  petty  larceny  committed  on 
the  greasepot — when  he,  smiling  across  the  counter  at 
his  victim,  puts  off  knowingly  the  poorest  commodity  at 
the  highest  price,  how  stands  he  in  relation  to  his 
captive  handmaid?  Why,  Rebecca  has  robbed,  but  the 
tradesman  has  only  driven  his  trade  :  the  slut  has  for  ever 
and  for  ever  lost  her  character,  with  it  seven  pounds  per 
annum,  and,  it  may  be,  tea  and  sugar  included — but  for  Mr 
Jackson,  her  master,  he  has  turned  the  profit  penny ;  he  has 
— but  all  in  the  way  of  business — swindled." 

"  It  is  very  true,"  exclaimed  my  father  with  an  oath,  "  it 
is  very  true.  When  what  is  swindling  isn't  swindling 
according  to  law,  it's  a  fortune  to  a  man ;  but  when  it's 
agin  law,  and  found  out " 

"The  result  I  know,"  cried  my  uncle,  a  slight  tint  of  red 
suffusing  his  manly  cheek.     "  All  mankind  may  be  divided 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     209 

into  two  classes  :  the  swindlers  according  to  custom  and 
to  law,  and  the  swindlers  according  to  the  bent  of  their 
natural  genius." 

"True  agin,"  cried  my  father,  slapping  his  thigh. 

"Still,  the  propensity,"  said  my  uncle,  "is  universal: 
men  only  want  temptation.  If  is  extraordinary  how,  like  a 
chain,  the  feeling  runs  from  breast  to  breast.  Jack  Smasher 
was  one  of  the  prettiest  hands  at  coining ;  and  more,  he  was 
blessed  with  a  wife  born,  I  should  say,  with  a  genius  for 
passing  bad  money.  She  took  a  crown — one  of  her 
husband's  base-begotten  offspring — purchased  with  it  three 
pennyworth  of  rhubarb  from  a  Quaker  chemist,  who — 
undone  man  ! — handed  over  four-and-ninepence  change. 
Aminadab  Straightback  was,  even  among  his  brethren, 
the  brightest  child  of  truth.  In  due  season  Aminadab 
detected  the  guileful  crown,  and  in  his  own  clear  breast 
resolved  to  destroy  it.  However,  it  remained  by  the 
strangest  accident  in  his  till,  and  by  an  accident  still 
more  extraordinary,  was  given  in  part  of  change  for  a 
guinea  to  a  gentleman  a  little  the  worse  for  liquor,  who 
on  his  way  home  to  bed  took  the  precaution  of  dropping 
into  Straightback's  for  a  box  of — his  own  patent — anti- 
bacchic  prills.  In  the  morning  the  vinous  gentleman  dis- 
covered the  pocket-piece,  but  as  he  had  changed  more 
than  one  guinea,  could  not  with  certainty  detect  the  giver 
of  the  counterfeit.  No  matter.  It  remained  loose  with 
other  money  in  his  pocket,  and  one  day,  to  his  own 
surprise,  he  found  he  had  passed  it.  He  had  taken  a 
journey,  and  it  was  very  dark  when,  in  the  handsomest 
manner,  he  fee'd  the  coachman.  The  poor  man  who 
drove  the  Tally-ho  did  not  realise  more  than  ^400  per 
annum,  and  could  not  afford  to  lose  five  shillings  ;  hence 
Smasher's  crown  became  at  a  fitting  opportunity  the 
property  of  a  sand-blind  old  gentlewoman,  who,  her  loss 
discovered,    lifted    up    her    hands    at    the    iniquity   of  the 


2io     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

world,  and  put  aside  the  brassy  wickedness.  The  good 
old  soul  never  missed  a  charity  sermon.  The  Reverend 
Mr  Sulphurtongue  made  a  sweet  discourse  in  favour  of 
the  conversion  of  the  Jews,  and  the  churchwardens  con- 
descended to  hold  each  a  plate.  To  the  great  disgust 
of  the  discoverers,  a  bad  •  crown  was  detected  amongst 
the  subscribed  half-crowns  and  shillings.  The  beadle 
was  directed  to  destroy  it.  He  intended  to  do  so,  but, 
in  pure  forgetful ness,  passed  it  one  day  for  purl  ;  the 
landlady  of  the  *  George '  having,  as  she  said  *  taken  it, 
was  resolved  not  to  lose  it,'  and  by  some  accident  it  was 
given  to  a  pedlar,  who,  after  a  walk  of  twenty  miles,  entered 
an  ale-house,  took  his  supper  of  bread  and  cheese,  went 
to  bed,  rose,  and  proffered  for  his  account  Jack  Smasher's 
pocket-piece.  The  pedlar  was  immediately  given  into  the 
hands  of  a  constable,  taken  before  a  magistrate,  and  ordered 
to  be  imprisoned  and  whipped  as  a  passer  of  counterfeit 
coin." 

"  See  what  luck  is  !  "  cried  my  father  ;  "  it's  the  Quaker 
what  should  have  lost  the  dollar." 

"  He  couldn't  do  it ;  for  though  he  was  a  most  respect- 
able person,  and  lived  and  died  with  that  character,  he  was 
but  a  man.  He  had  been  swindled — the  link  of  the  chain 
was  touched,  and  it  vibrated — you  perceive,  it  vibrated  ?  " 

Again  my  father  nodded. 

"  Yes,"  exclaimed  Barabbas  Whitefeather,  "  I  repeat  it 
— the  sympathy  is  universal.  All  men  can,  do,  or  might, 
swindle.  Though  with  many  the  propensity  be  latent,  it 
surely  exists,  and  needs  but  the  happy  moment  to  be 
awakened  into  life.  The  proof  is  easy :  take  ten,  twenty, 
thirty  men  —  creatures  of  light ;  admirable,  estimable, 
conscientious  persons  ;  by-words  of  excellence,  proverbs 
of  truth  in  their  individual  dealings ;  and  yet,  make  of 
them  a  *  board  ' — a  '  committee  ' — a  *  council ' — a  ■  com- 
pany ' — no   matter   \vhat   may  be   the   collective   name   by 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     211 

which  they  may  be  known — and  immediately  every  member 
will  acknowledge  the  quickening  of  a  feeling — a  sudden 
growth  of  an  indomitable  lust  to — swindle.  What  is 
this  but  a  proof  of  the  faculty — as  I  have  said — dormant, 
but  requiring  only  the  necessary  agent  to  awaken  it  ? 
Oh !  let  no  man  perk  himself  up  in  the  pride  of  his 
innocence — strut  and  pout,  big  with  the  prejudice  of 
respectability  !  He  knows  not  the  mystery  of  his  own 
nature ;  for  though  to  his  own  eyes  he  shall  be  a  saint, 
he  will,  when  time  and  purpose  shall  see  fit  to  call  his  better 
feelings  into  life,  he  will,  he  must,  he  cannot  do  otherwise 
than — swindle." 

My  father,  though  a  strong  man,  was  much  affected. 

"  As  for  you,  my  dear  child,"  said  my  uncle,  taking  me 
by  the  hand,  kissing  me,  and  looking  benevolently  upon 
me,  "  as  for  you,  remember  the  words  of  Barabbas  White- 
feather.  At  present  you  know  not  their  worth,  but  a 
time  will  come  when  better  than  pearls  or  gold  will  be 
this  my  parting  council  to  you.  Throughout  your  life 
do  nought  but  swindle.  If  you  can,  swindle  on  the 
right  side  of  the  statute,  but  at  all  events,  my  dear  child," 
— even  now  I  feel  the  pressure  of  that  wise  man's  lip, 
the  warm  tear  trickling  down  my  cheeks, — "  at  all  events, 
Barabbas,  swindle  !  " 

I  am  now  in  my  nine-and-thirtieth  year ;  and  from 
my  first  day  of  discretion  until  this,  the  season  of  ripest 
manhood,  I  can,  laying  my  hand  upon  my  heart,  most 
conscientiously  declare  that  never  for  a  moment  have  I 
forgotten  the  last  injunction  of  the  best  of  uncles.  But 
why  should  I  speak  on  this  head  ?  The  world  will  do  me 
justice. 

My  uncle  shook  my  parent  by  the  hand.  "  Good-bye," 
he  said  ;  "  we  may  never  meet  again,  for  I  am  now  two-and- 
forty,  and  you  know  " — this  I  could  not  understand — "you 
know  if  s  fourteen  penn  orth." 


2i2     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

My  father,  choking  with  emotion,  cried,  "  D — n  'em  !  w 
We  quitted  my  uncle ;  and  I  trust  I  shall  not  be  accused 
of  adopting  the  language  of  hyperbole,  when  I  state  that  we 
quitted  him  with  feelings  far  more  easy  of  conception  than 
description. 

Only  a  twelvemonth  after  this,  I  lost  my  excellent  father. 
It  may  prove  to  the  giddy  and  the  vain  the  uncertainty  of 
life,  when  I  state  that  my  worthy  parent  was  in  robust 
health  one  minute  and  dead  the  next.  It  may  also  prove 
that  he  had  held  some  place  in  the  world,  when  I  assure 
the  reader  that  crowds  of  people  flocked  to  our  house  to 
pay  honour  to  his  cold  remains ;  which,  for  the  benefit  of 
his  widow  and  son,  were  exhibited  at  sixpence  a  head  to 
grown  persons,  and  half-price  for  children.  I  should  be 
unjust  to  my  parent's  memory  were  I  to  withhold  another 
circumstance  illustrative  of  the  consequence  of  my  father  to 
the  world  at  large :  the  night-cap  in  which  he  died  was 
purchased  by  a  gentleman,  a  lover  of  the  fine  arts,  after  a 
severe  contest  with  other  bidders,  for  two  guineas. 

And  so  much  for  my  uncle  and  my  father,  both  worthy 
of  the  name  of  Whitefeather. 


CHAPTER    II 

CAPTAIN    WHITEFEATHER    TAKES    AN    ENLARGED    VIEW    OF 
SWINDLING.        SOCIAL    EVILS    AND    THEIR    REMEDY 

No — the  theme  is  too  pregnant  with  circumstance ;  too 
vast — too  voluminous.  Let  me  then  subdue  the  vain, 
though  laudable,  ambition — let  me  repress  the  fond,  the 
wild  desire  of  such  distinction.  Is  it  for  a  single  pen  to 
write  the  History  of  Swindling  ?  Is  it  for  one  man  to 
chronicle,  with  scrupulous  fidelity,  the  rise  and  progress  of 
the  exquisite  art   (for  I  must  call  it  so)  ?     Is  it  for  one 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     213 

curious  pair  of  eyes — one  toilsome  hand — to  pore  over  and 
put  down  the  many  million  fasts  to  be  registered  in  a  com- 
plete body  of  the  Science  ?  Could  the  life  of  a  patriarch, 
even  though  he  worked  the  hours  of  a  cotton-spinner, 
suffice  for  the  labour  ?  Consider,  Barabbas,  what  running 
to  and  fro — what  fetching  and  carrying  of  truths — what 
sifting  and  winnowing  of  chaff  and  husk — what  gold- 
washing — what  pearl-diving  !  Now  picking  up  stray  matter 
for  your  work  in  Egypt — now,  with  a  thought,  among  the 
sages  in  India — now  off,  it  may  be,  upon  a  wild-goose 
chase  to  Arabia  Petraea — now  among  the  Scandinavians — 
and  now,  cold  as  a  snowball,  to  be  called  away  to  the 
opium-sellers  at  the  walls  of  the  Tartars  !  Is  it  possible  for 
one  man,  though  with  ribs  of  brass  and  soles  of  adamant, 
to  go  through  the  toil  and  travel  ?  And  this,  be  it  remarked, 
will  only  take  in  the  first  thousand  years  or  so  of  the 
age  of  our  dear,  ill-used  mother  earth.  How  much  remains 
to  be  done — what  crooked  ways  to  thread — what  dirt  and 
rust  to  scratch  away — what  inscriptions  to  guess  at — what 
monuments  to  measure — even  before  you  come  to  Semiramis ! 
And  when,  reeling  like  a  porter  under  a  thousand- weight  of 
facts — for  a  very  few  facts  make  a  pound — you  arrive  at 
Semiramis,  have  you  disciplined  yourself  to  bear  the 
indifference  of  a  superficial  generation  —  to  be  asked 
by  listless  ignorance,  "  Who  the  devil  is  Semiramis  ? " 
Dear  Barabbas,  your  yearnings  are  indeed  most  noble ; 
but  there  is  a  limit  to  human  action — there  is  a  point 
where  man  must  stop.  The  task  is  not  earthly;  or,  if 
indeed  it  be  a  mortal  labour,  it  is  only  to  be  achieved  by  the 
united  heads  and  hands  of  many.  A  band  of  hard-working 
encyclopaedists — temperate  labourers  living  upon  bread  and 
water  and  figs — might  possibly,  in  the  course  of  a  few 
lustres,  produce  some  hundred  volumes  of  the  work  ;  but  a 
complete  body  of  swindling  from  the  birth  of  time  to  its 
present  lustihood,  it  is  a  thing  only  to  be  dreamed  of— 


2i4     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

a  glorious  phantasm — a  magnificent  but  most  deceitful 
vision !  . 

But  grant  it  done.  Say  that  the  last  proof — the  ten 
millionth  sheet — lies  before  you,  the  smooth-faced  devil 
waiting  at  your  garret  door  to  carry  off  the  corrected  matter 
for  the  press.  Say  that  it  is  printed,  published,  and  the 
whole  five  hundred  volumes  folio  scrupulously  conned,  as 
they  doubtless  would  be,  by  the  critics— alack  !  alack  ! — 
what  a  melancholy  book  hath  the  press  groaned  with — 
what  a  ghastly  chronicle,  what  a  blood-dyed,  tear-stained 
record  ! 

"  A  complete  body  of  swindling  !  "  Let  us  turn  a  few  of 
the  leaves.  They  creak  like  dungeon  hinges  !  Are  not 
the  pictures  terrible?  Whole  generations  of  men,  thin- 
chapped,  hollow-eyed,  scourged  and  in  bonds  ;  fainting  in 
mid-day  ;  stark  with  the  dews  of  night.  Tens  of  thousands, 
living  carcasses,  in  mines — thousands  and  thousands  writh- 
ing in  blood  and  agony  upon  the  field — with  the  vassals  of 
glory,  a  cloud  of  vultures,  hovering  to  pick  their  bones. 
Next  let  us  peep  through  prison  bars,  and — no  ;  close  the 
book — it  is  too  shocking — one's  marrow  freezes,  and  the 
brain  reels  at  it. 

"  Methinks,"  says  the  reader,  "the  Captain  takes  a  too 
comprehensive  view  of  his  subject." 

Right,  sagacious  reader  ;  and  yet,  were  the  history  of 
swindling  in  all  its  ramifications  to  be  duly  chronicled,  the 
work  would  be  no  less  voluminous,  no  jot  less  tragical. 
The  present  is,  after  all,  not  an  auspicious  age  for  folios ; 
neither  is  it  the  best  of  all  possible  eras  for  the  publication 
of  disagreeable  truths.  Lazarus  himself,  to  touch  worldly 
sympathy,  should  in  these  days  be  a  Lazarus  in  superfine 
cloth — the  best  cambric  and  the  glossiest  beaver  ;  nay,  he 
would  be  something  the  gainer  by  a  waistcoat  of  gold- 
smeared  velvet,  and,  at  least,  a  chain  of  silver.  To  make 
iniquity  or  sorrow  bearable,  it  is  highly  necessary  that  it 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     215 

should  be  properly  dressed.  Hence,  reader,  I,  Barabbas 
Whitefeather,  instructed  by  the  better  spirit  of  the  age, 
forego  my  first  Utopian  purpose,  and  leaving  the  full  history 
of  swindling  to  be  written  by  a  future  college  of  sages,  shall 
confine  myself  more  immediately  to  the  existing  wants  of 
the  world — shall  attend  to  the  crying  necessities  of  the 
present  generation.  Controlled  by  my  better  genius,  I 
renounce  folios. 

After  all,  the  world  has  not,  as  I  at  first  superficially 
believed,  so  keen  a  want  of  a  complete  history  of  swind- 
ling :  for  how  many  books  have  been  written  which, 
although  not  professedly  treating  of  the  theme,  are,  by  their 
very  subject,  works  of  reference  and  authority  in  the  matter  ! 
What,  for  instance,  is  much  of  Ancient  History  ?  What 
The  Lives  of  the  Roman  Emperors  ?  What  The  History  of 
Conquests  ?  What  The  History  of  Discovery — from  the 
first  finding  of  Mesopotamia  to  the  last  providential  flight 
upon  New  Zealand  ?  If  men  will  read  not  with  their  eyes 
alone,  but  with  understanding  hearts,  how  much  is  there  in 
all  these  works,  in  all  these  narratives,  that  is  indeed  no 
other  than  materials  for  a  complete  body  of  swindling  ? 
Loose  pearls  that  need  stringing — scattered  lights  to  be 
brought  to  one  point .?  Indeed,  to  a  contemplative  mind, 
to  a  reader  properly  prepared  for  the  perusal  of  history 
and  biography,  it  is  almost  impossible  for  him  to  open  a 
volume  from  which  he  should  not  gather  knowledge  of  a 
swindling  kind.  It  is  often  the  very  staple  of  a  book, 
though  to  the  shame  of  many  writers,  I  grieve  to  say  it, 
the  subject  is  most  ungenerously  disguised  under  foreign 
trappings — passed  off  under  a  false  name.  Hence,  reflect- 
ing that  if  men  will  look  round  them,  they  are  not  wholly 
destitute  of  works  containing  the  philosophy  of  swindling  on 
a  grand  historical  scale — on  an  enlarged  and  transcendental 
plan — I  shall  endeavour  to  prevail  upon  myself  to  become 
merely  useful,  leaving  it  to  the  poorly  ambitious  to  glitter 


216     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

and  to  soar.  Let  other  men  make  pedestals  to  themselves 
of  unopened  folios ;  they  have  their  veneration — they  are 
talked  of,  never  read.  I — I  will  descend  among  the  crowd 
— will  mix  with  my  fellow- creatures — will  right  and  left 
scatter  among  the  children  of  innocence  a  "  Handbook  " — 
a  veritable  tome  to  be  carried  between  the  thumbs  and 
fingers  of  men  in  their  paths  by  day,  and  like  a  guardian 
and  protecting  genius  to  nestle  in  their  bosoms  at  night. 
Yes,  it  shall  be  no  large  carcass  of  a  book  ;  no  literary 
mammoth  of  a  bygone  time  ;  a  load  for  a  shelf;  but  a  light 
and  dainty  fairy  for  the  palm.  A  "  Handbook  !  " — Yes, 
there  is  a  freshness,  a  beauty,  a  truthfulness  in  the  name  ; 
it  shall  be  "  The  Handbook  of  Swindling  !  "  Uncut 
folios,  avaunt  !  and,  thick  as  humming-birds  in  tropic 
groves,  "  Handbooks,"  in,green  and  gold,  trim  your  glow- 
ing winglets  and  flutter  among  men.1 

Having  resolved  upon  the  mode  in  which  I  shall  benefit 
humanity,  having  come  to  the  determination  to  contract 
myself  into  the  smallest  possible  size,  that  I  may  the  more 
deftly  make  my  way  among  the  crowd,  it  is  but  due  to  my- 
self— it  is  but  just  to  my  readers — to  make  known  in  a  few 
words  the  extent  and  range  of  my  purpose.  That  purpose 
is,  I  am  proud  to  feel  it,  of  the  best  wisdom,  of  the  noblest 
benevolence  ;  it  is  to  make  every  man — at  least  every  think- 
ing, reasonable  man,  for  I  write  not  to  blockheads — a 
Swindler.      Yes  ;     it   is   my  aim    to    render   him,   at    all 

1  The  reader  will  perceive  from  the  self-complacency  with 
which  the  author  talks  of  "Handbook,"  that  he  would  pass 
the  compound  as  purely  one  of  his  own  invention.  The  editor, 
however,  conceives  it  to  be  a  part  of  his  stern  duty  to  state  that 
a  book  printed  at  Baden-Baden,  where  the  Captain  was  wont  to 
retire  in  autumn  for  the  benefit  of  the  waters  and  other  benefits 
— a  book  entitled  (we  give  the  English)  "The  Handbook  of 
Cogging,"  was  found  among  the  Captain's  other  literary  effects. 
He  had,  doubtless,  forgotten  that  Handbook  was  from  Handbuch. 
— [John  Jackdaw,  Ed.] 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     217 

points,  armed  for  the  contest  of  life — to  prepare  him  for 
the  cutting  and  thrusting  and  picking  and  stealing  of  this 
eventful  passage.  It  is  my  purpose  to  make  known  a  few 
golden  rules — the  result  of  a  long  and  various  experience — 
by  which  the  attentive  and  quick-witted  student  may  learn 
to  play  with  men  as  he  would  play  with  pieces  of  chess,  by 
which  every  move  on  the  board  of  life  may  be  his  own,  to 
the  utter  discomfiture  of  a  plodding  and  merely  painstaking 
opponent.  And  in  all  this  there  shall  be  nothing  legally 
forbidden  ;  nothing  that  shall  suddenly  shock  your  delicate 
nostrils,  reader,  with  the  smell  of  hemp :  no,  no  ;  though 
turnkeys  and  the  hangman  walk  about  you,  if  you  are  an 
apt  scholar,  you  shall  snap  your  fingers  at  them,  and  swindle 
securely. 

"  And  now,"  thinks  the  reader, — for  1  know  his  thoughts 
as  well  as  I  know  my  own  whiskers, — "  now  the  book  begins 
to  open;  now  the  work  warms  up."      Be  not  impatient. 

Impressed  as  I  am  with  the  purpose  of  this  inestimable 
little  work,  it  befits  the  dignity  of  that  purpose  that  there 
should  be  no  unseemly  haste,  no  helter-skelter  in  the  com- 
munication of  ideas.  Were  I  writing  the  "  Handbook  of 
Egg-Sucking,"  or  any  such  domestic  treatise,  I  might  jump 
into  my  subject ;  but  "  Swindling  "  is  not  to  be  approached 
irreverently. 

Its  influence  on  the  happiness  of  society  is  to  be  duly 
considered,  that  the  maxims  by  which  it  is  the  hope  of  the 
author  to  recommend  it  may  have  their  due  weight  upon 
the  disciple;  who,  when  he  shall  learn  that  swindling  is, 
indeed,  synonymous  with  self-preservation,  will  brush  up 
his  hair,  take  breath,  and  then,  unless  he  have  no  more 
sensibility  than  a  stock  or  stone,  lapse  into  a  state  of  the 
profoundest  and  most  admiring  attention.  Yes  ;  I  was  right 
— the  pupil  is  now  all  ears. 

Philanthropists  and  philosophers  have  come  to  the  com- 
fortable  conclusion   that   there   are   in    England   too  many 


218     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

Englishmen.  John  Bull  has  played  the  Sultan,  and  has 
an  alarmingly  numerous  family.  Unhappily,  however,  he 
has  not  the  Sultan's  wealth — neither  has  he  the  Sultan's 
prerogative  :  he  cannot  feed  all  his  sons  and  daughters  ;  he 
must  not  choke  or  drown  them.  The  bowstring  and  the 
Bosphorus  are  not  for  John.  What  then  is  to  become  of 
the  family  of  Bull  ?  Shall  they  tear  each  other  piecemeal  ? 
Forgetful  of  their  origin,  shall  they  destroy  one  another  in 
civil  fight?  Amor  patria — humanity — all  the  finer  and 
nobler  feelings  of  the  human  heart  revolt  at  the  very 
thought.  "  What,"  the  philanthropist  will  inquire  with 
tears  in  his  eyes — "what,  then,  is  to  be  done  with  a 
superabundant  population  \  "  My  reply  is  as  brief  as,  I 
flatter  myself,  it  is  conclusive — they  must  swindle.  We 
have  been  gradually  adopting  what  I  believe  to  be  the  only 
remedy  for  the  national  disease  ;  we  have  for  some  years 
in  many  instances  applied  what  I  conceive  to  be  the  only 
cure  for  the  social  malady  ;  but  it  is  only  when  it  shall  be 
applied  upon  a  grand  scale,  when,  in  fact,  a  curative  science 
shall  be  professed  and  practised  by  men  cognisant  of  all  its 
subtle  and  most  bountiful  capabilities — for  it  is  yet  in  its 
infancy — that  the  greatness  of  its  social  value  will  be 
thoroughly  manifested  and  acknowledged. 

It  is  allowed  that  all  the  professions  are  full  to  running 
over.  The  Church  is  crammed  to  suffocation  with  appli- 
cants for  deaneries,  prebends,  vicarages  ;  to  say  nothing  of 
the  thousands  with  their  hearts  fixed  upon  mitres.  There 
is  hardly  standing  room  among  the  candidates  for  lawn  and 
silk  aprons. 

In  the  Courts  of  Law  there  are  wigs  as  thick  as  cauli- 
flowers in  Battersea  Gardens.  Besides,  the  sneaking  spirit 
of  the  times  has  so  enervated  the  British  character,  that 
Englishmen  lack  somewhat  of  that  generous  pugnacity 
which,  in  the  days  of  our  fathers,  would  precipitate  them 
into  the  arena  of  the  law  to  feed   with   their   own   flesh 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     219 

the  lions  therein  prowling.  And  when  it  happens  that  a 
gentleman  with  the  true  English  blood  in  him  shall  resolve 
upon  such  noble  sacrifice,  why,  so  numerous  are  the 
animals  awaiting  him,  that  many  a  term  shall  pass,  and 
not  one  of  the  carnivora  shall  have  so  much  as  a  mouthful 
of  the  honest  gentleman's  flesh — shall  not  even  make  their 
mark  in  him.  Consider  it  well,  reader  ;  count,  if  you  can, 
the  hundreds  of  excellent,  watchful,  well-disposed  persons 
who,  every  morning  during  term,  come  down  to  the  Courts 
to  prey ;  and  who,  nevertheless,  return  to  their  homes  all 
innocent  of  strife.  Is  not  this  a  discouraging  prospect  for 
thousands  of  young  men,  most  of  them  very  willing  to 
become  Chancellor  ?  But  so  it  is  ;  the  profession  has  a 
greater  supply  than  demand.  In  fifty  years  it  will  be 
thought  great  luck  in  a  man  to  die  Lord  Chief  Justice  or 
Attorney-General. 

In  the  Army,  a  profession  that  I  have  followed  with 
an  ardour  peculiarly  my  own,  can  anything  be  more 
barren  ?  Here  am  I,  at  the  age  of  nine-and-thirty — I, 
who  have — but  no,  the  dignity  of  my  subject,  the  national 
importance  of  this  treatise,  shall  not  be  lessened  or 
neglected  by  aught  personal.  Hence,  I  disdain  to  speak 
of  a  deep  bayonet  wound  inflicted  in  the  most  dastardly 
manner  in  the  small  of  my  back,  during  my  first  campaign 
in  Biscay — of  a  gash  across  my  nose,  from  an  enemy's 
sickle,  when  bivouacking  in  a  hen-roost — of  an  imaginary 
fracture  of  the  os — but  no ;  I  have  said  it,  I  will  not 
mingle  my  private  griefs,  were  I  chicken-hearted  enough 
to  think  them  so,  with  matters  of  national  interest.  Be- 
sides, every  man's  country  is  proverbially  ungrateful  to 
him.  Hence,  I  should  despise  myself  did  I  more  than 
allude,  in  the  most  evanescent  way,  to  my  heavy  pecuniary 
losses  in  the  service  of  Mexico,  Chili,  Peru,  and  other 
places  too  numerous  to  mention.  But  so  it  is  ;  and  what, 
I  ask — what  cares  the  commander-in-chief,  sitting  in  his 


22o     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

pride  of  place  at  the  Horse  Guards — what  cares  he  for  my 
superb  plum-pudding  spotted  charger,  shot  whilst  grazing 
— it  was  only  the  day  before  I  had  been  on  him— by  an 
enemy's  vidette  ?  What  cares  he  for  the  loss  of  my  three 
saddles,  generously  given  up  to  be  converted  into  highlows 
for  my  barefooted  comrades  ?  Yes,  what — I  must,  I  will 
ask  it — cares  the  said  commander-in-chief  for  the  sub- 
sequent ignominy  endured  in  consequence  of  that  gallant 
steed — that  by  me  devoted  leather  ?  Would  it  affect  him, 
even  for  half-an-hour,  to  know  that  on  my  return  to 
England— my  beloved  land! — after  three  years'  absence,  I 
was,  at  half-past  six  on  a  December  morning,  summoned 
by  my  landlady  to  see  a  Mr  Jones,  the  said  Mr  Jones  and  a 
friend  at  the  same  time  entering  my  apartment  to  remind 
me  of  my  lost  barb,  my  long-forgotten  saddles  ?  On  that 
morning  the  commander-in-chief  was,  I  doubt  it  not,  snoring 
ingloriously  in  bed ;  little  dreaming — it  may  be,  little  caring 
— that  at  that  hour  a  brother  soldier,  placed  between  two 
big  men  in  a  small  gig,  was  being  conveyed  at  the  rate  of 
three  miles  an  hour  through  fog  and  frost  to  Chancery 
Lane.  I  remember  the  Tyburn-like  pace  ;  for,  let  me  do 
his  benevolence  justice,  Mr  Levi  in  the  handsomest  way 
apologised  for  not  having  had  the  horse  roughed;  adding 
that,  as  he  had  no  other  call  to  make  that  morning,  "  he 
was  not  in  no  'urry." 

Friendly  reader,  as  an  officer  and  a  gentleman,  I  protest 
to  you  that  I  would  not  have  even  thus  casually  alluded  to 
personal  adventures  did  they  not  in  the  most  striking,  and 
I  may  add  in  the  most  pathetic  manner  illustrate  the  con- 
dition of  a  man  who,  with  a  military  flame  burning  in  his 
breast,  generously  offers  his  fire  in  the  cause  of  nations.  I 
might  proceed  ;  but  the  same  modesty  that  has  hitherto 
confined  me  to  the  rank  of  captain — and  I  may  here  allude 
to  an  infamous  conspiracy  on  the  part  of  the  publisher  and 
printers  of  the  Army  List,  my  name,  a§  I  have  been  in^ 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     221 

formed,  having  been  maliciously  omitted  from  that  miscel- 
lany— the  same  modesty  ties  up  my  tongue  on  my  own 
sufferings,  my  own  deserts  ;  or  at  most  but  lets  it  move  in 
fitful  murmurings.     I  have  done !     To  proceed. 

In  the  Army  what  are  the  hopes  for  superabundant  young 
gentlemen,  too  spirited  to  starve,  and  too  nice  to  dig  ? 
What,  I  ask,  can  be  their  hopes  when  a  hypocritic  senti- 
mentality is  gaining  ground  amongst  those  who  are  pleased 
to  call  themselves  thinking  men — a  whining,  sneaking 
abuse  of  glory  and  all  its  mighty  purposes  ?  There  is  a 
whimpering,  white-faced  cowardice  that  would  extract  all  the 
stern  immortal  beauty  from  the  battlefield,  showing  it  to  be 
no  other  than  a  place  of  butchery  ;  that  would  display  the 
valiant  soldier  with  his  throat  cut,  his  bowels  gloriously  pro- 
truding, as  a  horrible  sight — a  piece  of  sacrilege  done  by  man 
upon  his  fellow.  And  more  than  this,  the  same  cant  lifts  up 
its  face  of  turnip  pallor,  and  pointing  to  where  ten  or  twelve 
thousand  stalwart  fellows  lie  magnificently  dead  in  blood 
and  mire,  has  the  effrontery  to  ask  cui  bono,  as  my  old  school- 
master used  to  say —  to  put  the  impudent  "  JVhat's  the  good 
of  it  P  "  I  should  abuse  the  ingenuousness  of  the  young 
martial  spirit  were  1  to  be  silent  on  the  innovation  of  this 
wicked  principle ;  a  principle  which,  with  the  infamous 
invention  of  the  steam  gun  and  the  unhallowed  introduction 
of  the  rocket  brigade,  will  go  far,  or  Captain  Whitefeather 
is  no  prophet,  to  utterly  destroy  what  I  was  once  proud  to 
think  the  instinct  for  war  in  the  "  paragon  of  animals." 
There  is  something  inconceivably  cowardly  in  the  steam 
gun.  Possessed  of  such  engines,  neither  party  will  fight; 
and  thus,  nations  always  prepared  for  war,  will  hold  con- 
tinual peace.  They  will,  so  to  speak,  treat  and  deliberate 
at  "full  cock  "  ;  and  being  always  ready,  will  never  fire  Is 
not  this,  I  ask,  a  lamentable  state  of  the  world  for  a  man  to 
be  born  in?  Let  us,  however,  unflinchingly  look  truth  in 
•  the  face  ;  by  so  doing  we  shall  be  the  better  prepared  for 


222     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

the  evil  days  at  hand,  which  to  enable  men  to  meet  with 
some  serenity  of  mind  is  the  high  purpose  of  this  essay. 
Such  days  are  nearer,  much  nearer,  than  those  who  have 
capital  in  powder  mills  like  to  dream  of.  We  shall,  of  course, 
continue  to  keep  a  small  standing  army  ;  but  blank  cart- 
ridges for  birthdays  will  be  the  only  order  from  the  Horse 
Guards  :  bullets  will  become  as  rare  as  brilliants  ;  whole 
tons  of  the  death-dealing  lead  being  sold  to  the  type- 
founders. Laurel,  "the  meed  of  mighty  conquerors  " — why 
a  whole  grove  of  it  will  in  the  coming  time  be  held  of  no 
more  account,  nay,  of  not  so  much,  as  a  handful  of  dried  mar- 
joram. ,  Have  I  dreamt  it,  or  did  I  at  a  late  philosophical 
meeting  see  a  grave,  pragmatic  man  rise  from  his  seat,  and 
when  up,  did  I  or  did  I  not  hear  him  seriously  put  it  as  a 
motion — that  the  planet  Mars  should  be  no  longer  called 
Mars,  but  be  known  to  all  future  generations  as  James  Watt  ? 
The  Army,  then,  affords  no  refuge  for  the  tens  of  thou- 
sands up  to  within  these  few  years  begotten,  christened, 
suckled,  nursed,  fondled,  schooled,  petted,  sported  with, 
wept  over  by  fathers  and  mothers,  uncles  and  aunts,  grand- 
fathers and  grandmothers,  for  the  glorious  purposes  of  war. 
In  such  case  is  it  not,  I  ask,  the  highest  purpose  of  the 
philanthropist  to  find  employment  for  men,  who  in  happier 
times  might  have  been  usefully  employed  in  burning  the 
cottages  of  our  enemies,  lessening  the  numbers  of  our 
enemies'  children  (thus  nipping  a  foe  in  the  bud)  on  lances 
and  bayonets,  tearing  up  olive  groves,  carrying  away  the 
vanity  of  plate  and  pictures  from  enemies'  churches,  and  in 
lire,  and  blood,  and  terror,  planting  the  immortal  bay  ?  Since 
the  British  Lion  is  no  longer  to  be  fed  upon  Frenchmen's 
flesh,  since  he  is  henceforth  to  have  a  regimen  of  bread 
and  milk  and  dates,  it  behoves  us  to  see  that  he  be  gradually 
and  duly  prepared  for  the  change  in  his  diet,  lest  consump- 
tion fall  upon  him  ;  or,  a  still  greater  point,  lest  he  break 
all  bonds  and  spread  dismay  around. 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     223 

I  have  now,  I  trust,  convincingly  proved  that  the  many 
asylums  hitherto  open  to  the  pious,  the  wise,  and  the  brave, 
are  most  inconveniently  crammed  ;  and  that  with  less  room 
for  an  increasing  generation,  the  crowds  will  consequently 
become  more  dense,  more  clamorous,  and  in  a  word,  more 
revolutionary.  What  is  the  remedy  in  this  great  natural 
crisis  ? 

In  one  word  make  I  answer — "  Swindling  !  " 

The  philosophy  of  the  present  time  is  remarkable  for  its 
contempt— nay,  for  its  wholesome  abhorrence  of  poverty. 
A  want  of  the  luxuries  of  life  is  not  merely  inconvenient,  it 
is  positively  ignominious.  Hence  what  wrigglings,  and 
smugglings,  and  heartburnings  are  every  day  acted  and 
endured,  to  stand  well  with  the  world  ;  that  is,  to  stand  with- 
out a  hole  in  our  hat  or  a  damning  rent  in  our  small  clothes  ! 
The  modern  man  is  wonderfully  spiritualised  by  this  philo- 
sophy ;  so  much  so  that  if  he  can  secure  to  himself  a 
display  of  the  collar  he  is  almost  wholly  unconscious  of  the 
absence  of  the  shirt.  Indeed  so  deep  and  so  widely  spread 
is  this  sentiment  that  the  present  time  might  be  denomi- 
nated the  Age  of  Collars. 

This  spirit  is  on  the  advance;  and  it  is  the  conscious- 
ness of  this  truth  that  impresses  upon  me  the  necessity  of 
publishing  a  system  by  the  adoption  of  which  the  country 
may  be  saved  from  a  desolating  revolution,  and  tens  of 
thousands  of  future  generations  be  secured  those  benefits 
and  enjoyments  which,  as  the  sons  of  Adam,  they  are 
justified  in  expecting  from  the  fulness  of  time. 

I  have  proved,  at  least  to  my  own  satisfaction — a  great 
sustaining  point  with  an  author — proved  that  by  the  natural 
course  of  things  multitudes  of  generous  spirits,  before 
devoted  to  the  professions,  will  be  thrown  upon  their  own 
resources — -a  dreadful  condition  for  most  men.  What  is 
to  become  of  them  ?  They  cannot  sink  down  into  petty 
hucksters  ;    railroads  have  destroyed  the  race  of  pedlars  ; 


224    HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

they  must  not,  even  if  they  had  sufficient  moral  courage, 
hold  forth  their  white  hands  as  medicants  ;  and  if,  stung 
by  the  injustice  of  society,  they  should  in  a  moment  of 
exasperation  take  to  the  road,  why,  highwaymen,  save 
and  except  the  highwaymen  of  fifty  years  ago,  cease  to  be 
picturesque  ;  and  there  is  another  heavy  discouragement — 
the  barbarous  institution  of  a  rural  police.  These  fiery  souls 
— the  unemployed,  superabundant  young  gentlemen — must, 
then,  become  knight-errants  ;  that  is,  they  must  institute  an 
order  of  chivalry  peculiar  to  the  age,  and  the  best  calculated 
to  meet  the  wants  of  the  sufferers.  Let  us  take  a  single  knight. 
Here  is  Peter  Muddleton,  son  of  Jonah  Muddleton, 
greengrocer,  Houndsditch.  Jonah  Muddleton  dies,  leaving 
Peter  heir  to  the  goodwill  of  his  shop,  with  seven  hundred 
pounds  in  the  three  per  cents.  Well,  had  Peter  fallen  upon 
a  less  ambitious  age,  he  would  have  tied  his  apron  around 
him,  walked  behind  the  counter,  and,  saving  a  new  coat 
of  red  and  yellow  paint  bestowed  upon  the  outside  of  the 
shop,  and  the  substitution  of  "  Peter  "  for  "  Jonah,"  things 
would  have  gone  on  even  as  when  Muddleton  senior  was 
in  the  flesh.  Peter,  however,  has  a  spirit  above  ha'porths 
of  starch  and  pen'orths  of  pepper ;  and  having,  as  he  most 
potently  believes,  a  gentlemanly  taste,  resolves  to  do  any- 
thing that  may  become  a  gentleman,  but  certainly  not 
keep  to  a  shop.  The  seven  hundred  pounds,  to  Peter's  real 
astonishment,  become  in  a  brief  time  about  eight  hundred 
shillings.  A  little  month  and  Peter  is  penniless.  What 
is  to  be  done  ?  Is  Peter  to  be  blamed  for  the  spirit  of  the 
age  ?  Could  he,  the  hapless  son  of  a  vulgar  sire,  stultify 
himself  to  the  fascinating  and  exalting  appeals  of  an 
advancing  era  ?  No;  he  is,  in  the  first  instance,  the  victim 
of  over  refinement,  and  his  moral  perceptions  having  been 
rendered  painfully  acute  to  the  degradation  of  a  shop,  and 
his  physical  man  far  too  thin-skinned  for  the  labour  of 
Adam — and,  moreover,  having  not  a  sixpence,  and  seeing 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 


225 


no  gentlemanly  mode  of  obtaining  that  much-abused  yet 
most  necessary  little  coin — he  magnanimously  resolves  to 
eat  and  drink  the  best,  and  to  wear  the  costliest,  and  all — 
without  it.  This  is  the  determination  of  a  genius  :  but 
even  the  most  consummate  wit  may  be  assisted  by  the 
experience  of  others,  and  it  would  be  a  sorry  affectation  in 
me — it  would  be  worse,  it  would  be  a  gross  injustice  to  my 
fellow-creatures — to  deny  that  from  my  own  observation 
of  life  I  am  incapable  of  the  dearest  services  to  young 
gentlemen  so  curiously  placed  as  Peter  Muddleton. 

I  have  taken  a  single  case ;  I  have  adduced  one  of  the 
humblest  examples ;  I  already  see  a  hundred  thousand, 
many  varying  in  their  original  rank  in  life  ;  but  all,  at 
length,  compelled  by  the  spirit  of  the  age  to  take  their 
stand  upon  the  broad  ground  of — Swindling. 

All  commercial  operations  of  the  present,  and  certainly 
of  the  future  age,  do  and  will  tend  to  place  the  whole  wealth 
of  the  country  in  a  few  hands.  I  am  not  vain  enough  to 
suppose  that  this  book  will  enjoy  a  large  daily  sale  for  more 
than  a  hundred  years  ;  with  all  the  partiality  of  an  author,  I 
cannot  bring  myself  to  expect  that  the  state  of  society — 
whose  wants  the  work  is  to  meet — will  endure  above  another 
century.  However,  I  shall  have  done  my  duty,  and  I  may 
safely  leave  the  year  2000  to  the  active  philanthropy  of 
other  Whitefeathers.  For  more  than  the  next  hundred 
years  there  must,  if  my  previous  hypotheses  are  allowed,  be 
an  enormous  amount  of  intelligence  unemployed  by  the 
professions  ;  the  tangible  fat  of  the  land  becoming  every 
year  engrossed  by  a  smaller  number.  Now,  to  prevent  any 
violent  partition  of  property,  it  is — I  can  lay  my  hand  on 
my  heart  and  vow  it — it  is  my  purpose  to  make  the  few 
contribute  in  the  easiest  and  pleasantest  way  to  the  wants 
of  the  many.  Briefly,  it  is  my  object  to  show  to  the  elegant 
unemployed  'how  they  may  successfully  and  safely  swindle 
the  shopkeeping  minority.     The  whole  system  is  reduced 

p 


226     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

into  a  trial  of  wit ;  and  if  the  swindler  be  a  man  of  real 
genius,  and  the  man  swindled  have  a  touch  of  generous 
feeling  in  him,  he  will  forget  what  might  be  vulgarly  called 
a  loss  in  admiration  of  his  conqueror.  I  have  seen  much 
of  shopkeeping  nature  ;  and  I  am  convinced  that  a  man 
properly,  wholly,  and  withal  delicately  swindled — where  there 
have  been  no  rubs  or  hitches  in  the  work — that  a  man  who, 
with  all  his  eyes  and  ears  about  him,  has  nevertheless, 
without  his  knowing  it,  been  turned,  "  like  a  chevril  glove," 
inside  out  by  the  professor — that  such  a  man,  after  the  first 
burst  of  disappointment,  feels  but  little  of  the  bitterness  of 
resentment ;  the  small  drop  of  gall  in  his  heart  is  speedily 
taken  up,  and  by  a  process  delightful  for  the  benevolent  mind 
to  consider,  is  assimilated  to  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
still  running  in  the  ventricles  of  the  swindled ;  who — I 
have  known  such  an  instance — after  a  moody,  savage  look, 
will  burst  into  a  laugh,  slap  his  leg,  and  with  a  confident, 
yea,  with  an  exulting  voice,  declare  that  "  no  less  a  swindler 
could  ever  have  swindled  him."  Here  is  a  homage — an 
irresistible  token  of  admiration — paid  to  one  man ;  and  if 
we  consider,  in  proportion  to  the  possessions  of  the  others, 
how  small,  how  trivial  has  been  the  tribute  levied  upon 
him,  a  positive  enjoyment  afforded  to  another  !  Believe 
it,  reader,  the  swindled,  if  well  swindled,  is  not  without  his 

joy. 

This  maxim  is  never  to  be  lost  sight  of  by  the  pupil.  If 
he  would  disarm  a  man  of  the  natural  ferocity  of  the  animal 
when  fobbed,  he  must  fob  him  blandly,  graciously,  com- 
pletely. Humanity — a  consideration  of  the  feelings  of 
others — demands  this.  How  often  have  we  seen  a  worthy 
man  in  a  very  tempest  of  passion — his  face  like  copper — 
his  eyes  starting — his  tongue  stammering  his  wrongs  : — "The 
— the — the — infamous  scoundrel! — the  barefaced  villain! 
Did  he  think  I  was  to  be  done  in  that  way  ?  Did  he  think 
me  a  fool ,? " 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     227 

There  it  is,  take  the  good   man's   goods ;    but,  in  the 
taking,  see  you  never  wound  his  self-love. 


CHAPTER  III 

OF     THE    FACE    NECESSARY    TO     A     SWINDLER (AN    INCIDENTAL 

SPECULATION    ON    THE    "DIVISION    OF    PROPERTY  ") AND 

OF    THE    USE    AND    ABUSE    OF    MUSTACHIOS 

It  is  a  homely  expression,  often  used  in  reply  to  a  sarcasm 
on  a  personal  deformity,  "  that  we  did  not  make  our- 
selves." Not  even  a  Professor  of  Political  Economy  can 
argue  away  this  conviction,  rooted  as  it  is  in  the  depths 
of  the  human  heart.  Much,  however,  can  be  done  with  the 
rude  lump — if  indeed  it  be  rude — whereof  man  finds  him- 
self the  ill-starred  possessor.  Hence,  let  no  one  moderately 
deformed  despair  of  his  fitness  to  join  our  brotherhood 
Hump  backs,  club  feet,  and  bow  shins  have,  it  must 
be  owned,  their  disadvantages  for  the  service — notwith- 
standing, the  genius  of  their  owners  may  triumph  over  such 
outward  obstacles.  A  fine  face  tastefully  set  in  hair  may 
be  considered  a  blessing  for  the  profession  ;  yet  it  would  be 
to  inflict  a  great  injustice  on  the  higher  uses  of  the  science 
to  suppose  a  mere  face  so  framed  all-sufficient.  No  ;  "  we 
work  by  wit  and  not  by  whiskers."  The  outward  man  goes 
far,  but  he  must  depend  upon  the  ethereal  spark — upon  the 
inward  intelligence — for  self-distinction. 

And  first  for  the  Face  of  a  Swindler.  Men  who  set 
themselves  up  as  judges  of  character — I  have  heard  the 
sciolists — sometimes  marvel  that  the  sons  of  commerce 
should  so  frequently  fall  victims  to  some  individual  swindler  ; 
when  he,  the  party  swindling,  is  one  of  the  most  ingenuous 
creatures  breathing  ;  looking,  in  fact,  the  swindler  that  he 
is, — when  from  his  eyebrows  to  the  corners  of  his  lips  there 


228     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

is  painted  in  the  largest  human  capitals  the  calling  of  the 
professor.  The  truth  is,  the  unsuspecting  men  accustomed 
to  pore  over  day-books  and  ledgers  have  not  had  sufficient 
time  to  learn  to  read  human  faces.  They  can  on  the 
instant,  if  put  to  the  test,  tell  a  good  guinea  from  a  bad 
one  ;  but  though  they  shall  stare  in  the  features  of  a 
human  counterfeit  for  an  hour  or  more,  they  cannot,  one  in 
a  hundred,  discover  the  washed  brass  from  the  true  gold. 
More  ;  though  they  shall  hear  the  counterfeit — though  the 
ring  of  its  voice  shall  be  the  truest  Brummagem — the 
trading  man  shall  complacently  rub  his  hands,  satisfied  that 
he  is  hearing  the  sweetest  sound  of  the  mint. 

I  confess  it,  to  the  honour  of  the  trading  community  of 
this  commercial  country,  I  confess  it ;  the  success  of  some 
faces  of  my  brotherhood  upon  men  behind  counters  has 
been  to  me  startling  evidence  of  the  unsophisticated 
character  of  the  tradesman.  For  instance ;  there  is 
Nobrowns,  Scarceamag,  Fleeceington,  and  others  I  could 
name — shall  I  own  it? — I  have  sometimes  felt  myself 
humiliated  by  their  prosperity.  I  have  felt  the  science 
lowered  by  the  facility  with  which  they  have  ingratiated 
themselves  into  the  favour  of  the  jeweller,  the  coachmaker, 
the  tailor.  Had  /  kept  shop,  I  have  thought  I  should 
have  shown  Nobrowns  to  the  door  at  the  first  glance  of  his 
eye  ;  and  without  looking  at  Scarceamag,  but  simply  hearing 
his  base-metal  voice,  I  should  have  told  him  I  had  nothing 
in  his  way,  and  straightway  ordered  him  across  the  thres- 
hold. And  yet  these  men  have  flourished  for  a  score  of 
years  ;  and,  at  this  moment,  are  prosperous  swindlers.  How 
is  the  enigma  to  be  explained — how  the  more  than  Arcadian 
innocency  of  the  dwellers  in  Bond  Street  and  Regent 
Street  to  be  philosophically  accounted  for  ?  Is  it,  that 
men  immersed  in  the  profound  abstraction  of  jQ  s.  d. 
lose  somewhat  of  the  sagacity  inherited  and  often  improved 
by    poorer    souls ;     that,   too   much    rapt  by  the   splendid 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     229 

visions  of  the  future  profits,  they  are  less  vigilant  as  to 
the  danger  of  present  credit  ?  Providence,  however,  hath 
wisely  partitioned  its  benefits.  If  it  be  given  to  Scarce- 
amag,  with  his  face,  to  swindle  and  be  poor — it  is  also 
allotted  to  Puddingtete,  the  tradesman,  to  be  swindled 
and  grow  rich.  Take  this,  then,  my  dear  pupil,  for  an 
axiom  :  you  may — since  you  cannot  help  it — look  the 
greatest  swindler  in  life ;  but  if  you  shall  hold  your  own 
counsel,  your  face  shall,  at  least  to  the  acute  men  behind 
counters,  never  reveal  it.  Tradesmen  can  read  anything 
but  customers'  faces.1  This  truth  is  every  day  borne  out 
by  the  success  of  fellows  whose  features  have  gone  far  to 
vulgarise  the  science.  Ragamuffins  who  ought  never  to  have 
aspired  beyond  the  pea-and-thimble  board  at  a  country  fair 
— knaves  marked  and  impressed  by  the  truthful  hand  of 
nature  for  the  lowest  offices  of  legerdemain  have,  trusting  to 
the  simplicity,  the  unsuspecting  ingenuousness  of  a  money- 
getting  generation,  to  the  marvellous  innocency  of  the  com- 
mercial body,  made  for  themselves  a  reputation  of  the 
first  class,  or  of  very  nearly  the  first  class  of  the  highest 
profession.  Ultimately,  in  the  advancement  of  society,  these 
vulgar  upstarts  will  be  met  by  a  greater  number  of  compe- 
titors, elevated  and  accomplished  with  the  graces  of  life, 
and  the  term  swindler  will  be,  as  it  ought  to  be,  synonymous 
with  gentleman.  The  commercial  faculty  will,  on  the  other 
hand,  be  rendered  more  acute  in  its  observation  of  human 
character  ;  hence  it  will  require  a  greater  delicacy  of  style — 

1  I  can  scarcely  believe  that  Captain  Whitefeather  was  a  reader 
of  the  Essays  of  David  Hume  ;  and  yet  a  similar  opinion — a  friend 
of  mine,  a  poor  curate  to  whom  I  showed  the  Captain's  MS., 
pointed  it  out  to  me — is  expressed  by  the  sceptic  philosopher,  who, 
in  his  Essay  on  "Delicacy  of  Taste,"  says  : — "You  will  seldom 
find  that  mere  men  of  the  world,  whatever  strong  sense  they  may 
be  endowed  with,  are  very  nice  in  distinguishing  characters,  or  in 
marking  those. insensible  differences  and  gradations  which  make 
one  man  preferable  to  another." — [John  Jackdaw,  Ed.] 


±$o     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

more  imposing  and  a  more  winning  manner  to  arrive  at 
any  distinction — indeed,  even  to  make  a  clear  paltry  five 
hundred  a  year  as  a  swindler,  than  in  these  times  will  suffice 
to  ensure  to  a  tolerably  industrious  man  an  income  of  a 
thousand.  This  is  inevitable.  When  the  tens  of  thousands 
of  noble  spirits,  heretofore  absorbed  by  the  professions,  are 
left  to  trade  upon  their  wits — when  all  society  is  more 
strongly  marked,  more  arbitrarily  divided  into  two  classes, 
the  swindlers  and  the  swindled — when,  instead  of  a  violent 
and  ruthless  division  of  property,  as  infamously  as  ignorantly 
insisted  upon  by  certain  firebrands — there  is  a  graceful 
exchange  of  elegant  patronage  on  the  one  side,  and  a  pro- 
found expression  of  thanksgiving  respect  on  the  other,  the 
character  of  the  successful  swindler  will  rise  to  its  ordained 
and  natural  elevation,  and  a  Whitefeather  (pardon  the 
honest  vanity)  take  his  place  with  many  illustrious  names 
sufficiently  obvious  to  the  philosophical  reader.  The  time 
is  happily  passing  away  when  brute  violence  is  to  achieve 
national  good — when  the  price  of  bread  is  to  be  beaten 
down  by  a  bludgeon,  or  wages  raised  upon  a  pike.  It  is 
therefore  a  matter  of  deep  regret  to  the  contemplative  man, 
and  such  I  am  not  ashamed  to  confess  myself,  to  perceive 
how  many  gifted  persons  are,  by  a  premature  nativity,  ill- 
placed.  How  many  men  at  the  present  day  breathing 
national  arson  and  patriotic  pillage — men  who  have  so 
profoundly  studied  the  meum,  that  they  are  entirely  ignorant 
of  that  of  tuum — would,  born  a  few  years  hence,  have  shed  a 
lustre,  have  conferred  a  dignity  upon  even  an  illustrious  and 
dignified  profession.  Let  me  not  be  asked  to  enumerate 
examples — I  eschew  the  personal  for  the  general.  It  is 
enough  that  the  eye  of  the  philosopher  can  perceive  in 
many  a  sulphureous  patriot  the  indefatigable  swindler ;  that 
the  sage,  pondering  on  the  inevitable  changes  of  society, 
can  detect  in  a  present  Bull-ring  Brutus  all  the  misapplied 
qualities  of  a  future  Isaac  Solomons  ! 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     231 

Blissful  time — glorious  return  of  the  golden  age — when 
rapine  and  fire,  and  cutting  and  maiming  shall  no  longer  be 
the  evils  adopted  by  comprehensive  minds  to  work  out,  as 
they  conceive,  a  great  good  ;  but  when  one  half  of  the  people 
shall  live  peaceably  upon  the  other  ;  when  the  whole  aim  and 
end  of  every  two  men  out  of  four  shall  be  to  possess  them- 
selves of  their  daily  bread — (philosophers  will  receive  the 
phrase  in  its  more  enlarged  meaning) — by  an  art  demanding 
in  its  exercise  the  highest  and  most  chastened  faculties  of  the 
moral  creature.  The  two  halves  of  society  will  then  be  fairly 
arrayed  against  each  other  ;  and  for  ruthless  weapons — for 
sword,  dagger,  and  pistol  on  one  side,  and  bayonet,  sabre, 
and  carbine  on  the  other — we  shall  have  the  more  peaceful 
and  courteous  instruments,  silvery  words,  blandest  smiles, 
and  the  happiest  self-possession,  opposed  by  cautious  inter- 
rogation, wary  looks  and  silent  heavy  doubtings.  Here 
then  is  a  contest  worthy  of  intellectual  beings !  This  is 
indeed  a  duello  of  the  immortal  principle  !  How  poor, 
how  savage,  how  unworthy  of  a  rational  creature  to  break 
into  the  peaceful  dwelling  of  an  honest  silversmith — to  fire 
his  bed- curtains — to  bruise  and  batter  his  ornate  cream- jugs, 
his  chased  candlesticks,  and  embossed  tankards, —  or,  the 
spoil  carried  off  amidst  the  exulting  howl  of  barbarians,  to 
fling  it  into  the  hospitable  melting-pot — how  loathsome, 
how  degrading  this  brutal  mode  of  a  division  of  property,  to 
that  refined  and  gracious  system,  the  cunning  birth  of  better 
times — the  fruit  of  a  loftier  and  truer  consideration  of  man's 
dignity  towards  his  fellow  ! 

Let  us  consider  the  two  pictures ;  let  us  contemplate  the 
working  of  the  different  principles.  How  revolting  the 
scene  of  violence  !  How  debasing  to  our  common  nature 
to  witness  a  mob  of  denaturalised  creatures  bursting  in  the 
good  man's  door !  How  they  scamper  upstairs !  Like 
festal  savages  they  wave  firebrands  and  torches  about  their 
heads  as  they  rush  into  the  sacred  bedroom.     The  worthy 


232     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

man  says  a  short  prayer,  and  thinks  of  his  stock — his  wife 
and  daughters,  trembling  for  their  lives,  are  horrified  at 
being  seen  in  nightcaps  with  their  hair  in  paper  !  All  the 
house  is  in  consternation  ;  and,  a  touch  of  humanity  soften- 
ing the  mob,  they  benevolently  suffer  the  silversmith  and 
his  family  to  escape,  in  their  night-clothes,  over  the  roof, 
and  descend,  like  cats,  into  the  gutter  of  their  neighbour. 
The  shop  is  ransacked  of  everything  ;  and  now  a  sanguinary 
fight  is  going  on  behind  the  counter  between  two  of  the 
ruffians  for  the  plated  top  of  a  pepper-castor.  This — this 
is  one  principle  of  a  division  of  property  ;  as  if  property 
was  only  to  be  divided  by  the  blaze  of  torches  and  the 
crackling  of  rafters  !  Turn  we  to  the  ennobling  contrast. 
Mark  the  swindler  !  How  graciously  he  descends  from 
his  chariot — for  the  swindler  of  first-rate  genius  rarely 
marauds  on  foot — and  with  what  a  composed  elegance,  with 
what  a  perfect  self-possession  he  enters  the  shop  !  There 
is  something  inexpressibly  taking  in  his  manner.  Surveying 
him  from  head  to  foot,  we  cannot  repress  the  opinion  that 
the  "  age  of  chivalry  "  is  not  past.  He  is  the  knight  of 
later  times — the  Chevalier  Bayard  in  a  round  hat.  Sans 
peur  glows  in  his  eyeball,  and  the  whiteness  of  his  kid 
gloves  is  sans  reproche  !  Two  or  three  centuries  ago  he 
had,  with  mailed  hand,  "  shaken  the  bags  of  hoarding 
abbots,"  and  now  comes  he,  with  a  condescending  smile  at 
his  mouth,  to  deal  with  a  silversmith.  See !  he  crosses 
the  threshold — treads  the  shop.  It  is  impossible  to  resist 
the  fascination  of  his  lofty  courtesy.  The  tradesman,  wary 
as  he  is — suspicious  as  loss  after  loss  has  made  him — despite 
of  himself,  confesses  the  supremacy  of  the  stranger,  and, 
with  a  smiling  lip,  a  twinkling  eye,  folded  palms,  and 
inclined  back,  politely  receives  his  destroyer.  A  conversa- 
tion ensues;  and  the  swindler — I  am  of  course  putting  the 
case  of  a  man  of  genius — fastens  upon  the  tradesman,  who 
every   moment  becomes   more   deeply   impressed  with   the 


i  "i  i 


'I 


Tolifee-ly  rccuvtj-  kij-  dejitr'oycr  " 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     235 

consequence  of  his  patron ;  and  therefore,  having  flung  to 
the  winds  all  low  suspicion,  is  the  most  obsequious,  the  most 
humble  servant  of  the  swindler.  There#  is  nothing  too 
costly  for  him — nothing  too  curious  ;  no  order  too  difficult 
to  be  met — no  time  too  short  for  the  accomplishment  of 
his  wishes.  The  swindler  is  evidently  a  man  of  the  very 
highest  consequence ;  and  the  silversmith,  if  I  may  adopt  a 
homely  expression,  is  inevitably  done,  ay,  done — 

" — as  brown  as  a  berry."1 

The  swindler  whirls  away  from  the  tradesman,  who  has 
attended  him,  bareheaded,  to  the  kerbstone,  and  then  the 
man  of  precious  metals  returns  to  his  shop  in  that  delight- 
ful serenity  of  mind,  apt,  I  am  told,  to  possess  people  with 
profits  ranging  from  fifty  to  seventy-five  in  the  hundred. 

What — it  will  be  asked — what,  does  Mr  Giltspur,  the 
silversmith,  without  further  questions  put,  trust  his  service 
of  plate,  besides  a  magnificent  suite  of  amethysts  (for  which 
the  honourable  Mr  Thug  expressed  a  sudden  liking),  to 
the  honour  of  his  customer  ?  To  be  sure  he  does  ;  and  his 
blood  simmering  with  a  sense  of  profit,  he  orders  them  to  be 

delivered  at  " Hotel, "   where  Mr  Thug   is    staying  ; 

but  which  delightful  and  convenient  hostelry  he,  shortly 
afterwards,  suddenly  leaves  on  the  most  imperative  business. 
A  thousand  instances  bear  out  the  probability  of  Thug's 
success  and  Giltspur's  discomfiture.  People  may  talk  about 
the  innocence  of  a  pastoral  age  :  I  am,  from  long  experience, 
convinced  of  it,  that  the  most  innocent,  the  most  unsuspect- 
ing, the  most  easily-taken  biped  on  the  face  of  the  earth  is 
— your  London  shopkeeper.  Armed  with  proper  weapons, 
it  is  almost  impossible  that  he  can  escape  you.  The  poor 
creature  is  weakness,  imbecility  itself;  "Wear  your  eye 
thus,"  and  as  surely  as  the  fluttering  bird  drops  into  the 

1  It  will  be  seen  that  the  Captain  had  some  knowledge  of 
Chaucer. — [John  Jackdaw,  Ed.] 


236    HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

mouth  of  the  snake,  as  surely  fall  the  tribe  of  Giltspurs  into 
the  folds  of  the  Thugs. 

Well,  and  is  it  not  delightful  that  it  should  be  so  ?  Here 
is  Giltspur,  for  a  certain  number  of  days  at  least,  made  very 
happy  ;  he  has  delivered  his  goods,  and  has  already  cal- 
culated to  the  odd  sevenpence-halfpenny  the  amount  of 
profit.  Thug  has  conferred  upon  him  a  great  pleasure — 
passing,  it  must  be  owned — but  sweet,  very  sweet,  whilst  it 
endures. 

Does  the  reader  still  remember  the  picture  of  violence 
drawn  in  a  former  page  ?  Does  he  still  behold  the  pallid 
silversmith — his  fainting  wife — and  blushing  daughters  ? 
Does  he  yet  hear  the  roar  of  the  flames,  as  they  come  up 
the  staircase — the  fury  of  pillage  in  the  shop  below? 

The  same  effect  is  produced  by  the  swindler,  but  how 
different  the  cause  !  The  "  division  of  property  "  is  just 
as  complete — the  fine,  deep  philosophy  that  preaches  it 
equally  well  honoured ;  and  yet,  what  grace  on  one  side — 
what  civility  on  the  other  ;  and,  to  one  party  at  least,  what 
tangible,  enduring  satisfaction  !  Who,  then,  with  the 
smallest  spark  of  human  dignity  within  him  would  stoop 
to  violence  when  he  may  M  divide "  with  ease  ?  The 
14  multiplication  "  of  the  human  animal  is,  indeed,  according 
to  the  modern  school-men,  "  vexation  "  ;  but  the  "  division  " 
of  property — unless  divided  on  the  bland  principles  of  swind- 
ling— would  be  infinitely  worse.  In  the  progress  of  society, 
then,  it  is  by  swindling,  and  by  swindling  only,  that  we  shall 
escape  the  most  grievous  revolution. 

To  proceed  with  the  personal  qualifications  necessary  to 
a  Swindler.  He  must  have  a  face  of  purest  brass.  If 
handsome,  all  the  better  ;  yet,  perhaps,  expression  is  of 
greater  importance  than  the  mere  proportion  of  feature. 
If,  however,  he  look  a  Swindler — if  to  the  contemplative 
men  who  peruse  human  lines,  printed  in  the  blackest  ink  on 
some  human  faces,  he  look  his  profession — his  success  with 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     237 

the  sages  of  trade  is  certain.  It  is,  however,  of  the  first 
importance  that  there  should  be  no  alloy  in  the  face.  It 
should,  for  instance,  be  as  incapable  of  emotion  as  the  bull 
hide  on  the  shield  of  Ajax.1  This,  youthful  Swindler,  is 
the  besetting  danger ;  hence,  bend  all  your  energies  to 
obtain  a  stony  look  of  self-possession.  Though  a  constable 
should  put  his  "  dead  hand  "  upon  your  shoulder,  and  your 
very  marrow  should  thrill  at  the  touch — your  face  must 
remain  motionless  as  the  face  of  the  Apollo  Belvidere — 
your  eye  unquenched — your  voice  with  not  a  crack  in  it. 
I  will  not  disguise  the  difficulties  of  arriving  at  this  super- 
human placidity.  Talk  of  the  self-possession  of  a  Cgesar — 
the  coolness  of  a  Napoleon — quackery  all !  What  is  there 
in  the  composure  of  a  man  who  takes  snuff  whilst  hundreds 
of  other  men's  limbs  are  being  blown  into  the  air  (to  be 
wept  over  by  the  spirits  of  glory),  with  at  the  most  a  sauve 
qui  peut  for  it ;  whilst,  in  the  scale  of  advantage,  there  is  a 
laurel  wreath  and  a  triumphant  entry  and  civic  addresses, — 
what  is  all  this  to  the  quiet  dignity  demanded  of  a  swindler 
in  a  perilous  situation — his  splendid  cabriolet,  perhaps, 
waiting  at  the  shop — whilst,  sneaked  out  at  the  back 
door,  Bob  the  apprentice  has  run  for  Police  Officer 
Snatchem,  F.  No.  20,  to  attend  immediately  to  our  hero, 
who  at  his  approach  beholds  a  no  dim  vision  of  the  very 
handsome  police  omnibus  —  the  prison  barber  with  his 
ignominious  shears — and  hears,  or  thinks  he  hears,  the 
pathetic,  admonitory  address  of  Common  Sergeant  or 
Recorder  ?  It  may,  according  to  a  worn  metaphor,  take 
nerves  of  iron  to  direct  an  army  ;  but  they  must  be  brass, 
and  of  the  finest  brass  too,  to  swindle.  Fighting  is,  indeed, 
a  mechanic  trade  ;  millions  can  fight, — but  how  few  can 
gracefully  swindle  !       We   know  that  the   result   of  both 

1  I  may,  by  the  way,  observe  that  the  Captain,  whose  education 
was  not  equal  to  his  parts,  is  indebted  for  a  few  of  his  classical 
allusions  to  another  pen. — [John  Jackdaw,  Ed.] 


238     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

operations  is  often  the  same,  but  how  inferior  one  to  the 
other !  Buonaparte  brought  a  fezu  pictures  from  Italy, 
which  the  world — Heaven  knows! — made  noise  enough 
about.  In  warlike  phrase  he  "  took  them "  from  a 
vanquished  people  :  a  poor,  shabby  act  to  brag  of ;  but 
had  he,  unassisted  by  squadrons  and  battalions,  and  parks 
of  artillery — had  he,  by  the  unassisted  efforts  of  his  own 
mind,  with  no  other  masked  battery,  no  other  weapon  than 
his  own  hand  and  his  own  tongue, — had  he  robbed  one 
dealer  of  a  Correggio — another  of  a  Raphael — a  third  of  a 
Titian — a  fourth  of  a  Murillo — and  so  on, — it  had  indeed 
been  an  achievement  to  boast  of;  but  to  crack  of  the 
incident  as  one  of  the  trophies  of  the  army  of  Italy  was 
the  sublime  of  gasconading  !  My  late  friend  Featherfinger 
— he  died,  poor  fellow,  having  burst  a  blood-vessel  from 
intense  study  at  Macquarrie  Harbour — had  a  magnificent 
bronze  clock  ;  a  superb  thing  !  a  thing  to  make  a  man 
value  time.  Had  I  not  pledged  my  honour  to  secrecy,  I 
could  write  a  history  touching  his  possession  of  that  clock, 
which,  of  itself,  is  enough  to  immortalise  any  one  man. 
My  honour,  however,  is  sacred ;  and  my  lips  are  hushed. 
This  much,  probably,  I  may  be  permitted  to  observe :  The 
industry — nay,  that  is  a  poor,  unworthy  term — the  genius 
manifested  by  the  indefatigable  Featherfinger  to  possess 
that  clock — methinks  I  see  him  now ;  poor  fellow  !  seated 
with  his  Greek  cap,  his  black  satin  morning  gown  figured 
with  pink  poppies — an  Indian  shawl  (the  gage  d 'amour 
of  an  Italian  countess)  about  his  waist — his  feet  in  bead- 
embroidered  slippers,  the  work,  as  he  protested,  of  some 
heart-devoted  heiress — his  meerschaum  in  his  mouth — in 
his  hand  a  book,  Satan  or  the  Lives  of  Highwaymen  (for  he 
was  passionately  fond  of  light  literature)  —his  tiger  page, 
only  three  feet  high,  and  warranted  to  grow  no  taller,  in 
green  and  gold,  with  a  breast-plate  of  best  double  gilt 
buttons,    standing    at    a    reverential    distance — whilst   the 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     239 

bronze  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  vibrated  with  its  monitory, 
moralising — yes,  moralising — tick,  tick  !  Methinks  I  see 
him  as  1  enter  raise  one  eye  from  the  page,  nod,  smile 
— and  such  a  smile! — there  was  only  one  shopkeeper,  and 
he  was  a  philosophical  member  of  the  Society  of  Friends 
and  dealer  in  virtu,  that  ever  stood  against  it — smile,  and 
then  cast  the  other  eye  towards  the  clock  itself  with  a  look 
of  touching  reproach  at  my  delay,  or  with  a  glance  of 
approving  pleasure  at  my  punctuality.  Methinks  I  see  him 
— Gracious  powers !  That  such  a  man  should  die  at 
Macquarrie  Harbour,  taxed  beyond  his  strength  of  study, 
a  victim  to — but  no  ;  loyalty  to  the  Ministry  was  ever 
a  virtue  of  the  Whitefeathers,  and  I  breathe  no  word 
against  the  Whigs !  To  hurry  from  the  theme.  Much 
has  been  said  about  the  boldness,  the  fine  contempt 
of  public  opinion  shown  by  Napoleon  when  he  took 
the  horses  of  St  Mark  from  Venice  to  place  them  on 
his  own  palace  gate  in  Paris.  Well,  the  act  was  not 
without  its  merit,  but  did  I  dare  to  write  the  story  of 
Featherfinger's  clock,  the  theft  of  Napoleon  would,  in 
comparison  to  the  genius  manifested  by  my  friend,  sink 
to  the  petty  larceny  committed  by  schoolboys  upon 
apple  stalls.  But  so  it  is ;  the  finest  history  remains, 
and  ever  will  remain,  unwritten.  The  Venice  horses 
have  been  celebrated  by  poets  and  historians,  but  pos- 
terity is  left  to  bewilder  itself  with  guesses  on  Feather- 
finger's  clock.  Yet— and  I  am  prepared  to  meet  the 
consequences  of  such  an  assertion — I  am  convinced  that 
great  as  the  conqueror  was  in  all  the  varieties  of  the 
science,  Buonaparte's  horses  must  pass  from  the  recollection 
of  the  earth  ;  whereas  Featherfinger's  clock,  duly  chronicled, 
was  a  thing  for  time  !  It  may  be  cited  as  an  illustration  of 
the  injustice  of  Fortune — of  the  tricks  she  plays  with  the 
noble  and  the  man — when  the  reader  is  informed  that  the 
tiger  page   of  my   dear   friend — of  him  whose   bones  are 


24o     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

mouldering  (for  he  was  buried)  in  a  foreign  earth — of  him 
born,  as  the  poet  says — 

"  To  steal  a  grace  beyond  the  reach  of  art  " — 

that  that  little  cab-page — that  tiger-moth  fluttering  as  I 
have  seen  him  with  billet-doux  about  the  carriage-lamps 
and  round  the  torches  of  an  opera  night, — that  he  has 
at  this  moment  a  country-seat  and  grounds  at  Hackney, 
purchased  and  supported  by  the  precarious  profits  of  a 
night-house — that  is,  of  a  mansion  hospitably  open  in  the 
vicinity  of  Drury  Lane,  for  the  refreshment  of  travellers 
with  beer,  beef  and  oysters,  from  eleven  at  night  until  six 
in  the  morning.  But  so  it  is  ;  a  genius,  like  my  departed 
friend,  dies  beggared  at  the  last ;  whilst  mere  industry  at 
forty-five  grows  his  own  pine  apples  ! 

I  have,  I  trust,  been  sufficiently  minute  in  my  description 
of  the  face  requisite  to  be  put  upon  Swindling.  In  conclu- 
sion, I  have  only  to  enforce  the  necessity  of  the  most  rigid 
self-discipline  to  prevent  even  the  most  evanescent  exhibition 
of  what  is  conveniently  called  modesty  ;  for  the  swindler  who 
can  blush  is  lost.     His  must  be  a  brow  whereon 

M  Shame  is  ashamed  to  sit." 

A  money-lender,  a  courtier,  steeped  to  the  lips  in  broken 
promises — a  pick-pocket  caught  in  the  act,  all  of  these  may, 
if  they  can,  blush  and  not  be  ruined ;  but  woe  to  the 
swindler  whose  cheek  admits  the  self-accusing  tint !  His 
face,  like  the  face  of  the  man  in  the  moon,  must  look  down 
upon  all  sorts  of  acted  abominations,  yet  blench  not. 

Mustachios — These  were  pretty  things  for  the  pro- 
fession ;  but  I  grieve  to  say  it,  lawyers'  clerks,  linen-drapers' 
apprentices,  players  out  of  place,  and  even  pedestrian 
vendors  of  lucifer  matches,  have  detracted  from  their 
exclusive  importance  ;  hence,  I  would  counsel  the  youthful, 
sanguine  swindler  to  eschew  what  indeed  vulgar  usage  has 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     s4l 

rendered  a  very  questionable  advantage,  and  to  swindle 
with  clean  lips.  It  is  enough  to  break  the  heart  of  a  rabbi 
to  see  how  one  of"  Heaven's  best  gifts,"  the  human  beard, 
is  in  these  hirsute  days  cut  and  notched  according  to  the 
impudence  or  ignorance  of  the  wearer.  It  is  said  of  the 
French  that  they  have  a  thousand  ways  of  cooking  an 
egg  :  let  it  be  our  boast  that  we  have  as  many  modes  of 
dressing  the  chin.  I  have,  I  hope,  a  love  of  the  picturesque, 
as  the  world  will  one  day  know  from  a  work  of  mine  still, 
unhappily,  in  manuscript.1  I,  therefore,  am  a  passionate 
admirer  of  the  beard  of  patriarchal  growth  ;  but  for  your 
nasty,  stunted,  straggly,  ragged,  edgy  things — now  like  the 
skin  of  a  dog  with  the  mange,  now  like  the  end  of  a  skein 
of  whitey-brown  thread,  now  as  if  culled  fiom  chopped 
hay,  and  now  as  if  cut  from  a  singed  blanket — pah  ! — were 
I  caliph  for  a  day — but  no  matter,  let  me  not  wander  to 
legislation,  but  stick  to  my  higher  subject — Swindling.  I 
say,  then,  to  my  disciple,  eschew  mustachios.  At  best  they 
are  a  doubtful  good.  If,  however,  you  are  determined  to 
wear  them,  let  me  hope  that  their  hue  is  black  as  death. 
If,  on  the  contrary,  Heaven  has  awarded  you  a  pair  of  pale 
gold  or  deep  carrot  colour,  tamper  not  with  them,  but 
shave.  Never,  like  Richard,  think  to  stand  "  the  hazard 
of  the  die"  ;  if  so,  your  case  is  desperate.  I  knew  three 
promising  young  fellows,  all  of  whom  laid  their  ruin  at  the 
door  of  Mr  Rowland.  But — for  I  like  to  anticipate — it 
may  be  asked,  Do  you  always,  Captain  Whitefeather,  walk 
abroad  with  unrazored  lips  ?  To  this  I  boldly  answer  that 
— for  I  was  justified  in  the  vanity — I  did  wear  an  adorned 
mouth  ;  more,  that  a  lady,  who  shall  be  nameless,  was  in 
hysterics  (of  course  at  intervals)  for  three  days,  when  my 
mustachios  fell ;  but  no,  I  could  not  condescend  to  wear 
them  when  I   saw — yes,  I  confess  it — even  a  better  pair 

1  The  Handbook  of  Ratcliffe  Highway^  an  inestimable  work  (when 
printed)  for  the  stranger  in  London. — [John  Jackdaw,  Ed.] 

Q. 


242     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

than  my  own  upon  the  face  of  a  fellow  in  the  Surrey  gallery, 
selling  play-bills,  Spanish  nuts,  and  ginger  beer.  What  the 
revolution  of  society  may  in  time  produce  it  would  of 
course  be  impudence  in  me,  who  am  not  a  Paternoster  Row 
astrologer,  to  declare  ;  but,  for  the  next  five-and-twenty 
years,  mustachios  will,  I  think,  be  a  dangerous  decoration 
for  the  swindler.  So  much  business  has  been  done  with 
them  that  suspicion  will  have  scarcely  subsided  under  at 
least  another  quarter  of  a  century.  The  horse-tails  of  Ibrahim 
Pacha  have  not  been  more  triumphant  ;  but  victory  will  not 
always  perch  upon  the  same  banner. 

The  swindler  should  not  at  the  present  day  hope  to  take 
the  Philistines  by  the  strength  of  his  hair.  No  ;  let  him 
shave,  and  put  the  barest  face  upon  the  dignity  of  his 
profession — it  cannot  be  too  bare. 


CHAPTER  IV 

OF    THE    PARENTAGE'  AND    NAME    OF    A    SWINDLER OF    HIS 

EQUIPAGE OF    HIS    MORAL    PHILOSOPHY 

The  professor  of  our  distinguished  art  has,  it  must  be 
conceded,  this  peculiar  and  most  grateful  advantage — he 
may  choose  his  ancestors.  With  the  Peerage  or  the  Red 
Booh  open  before  him,  it  lies  within  his  own  breast  to  decide 
whether  he  shall  have  come  from  the  loins  of  a  Norman 
baron — of  one  of  the  boldest  of  that  invincible  band  of 
marauders  and  thieves  who  jumped  on  Hastings  beach — or 
whether  he  shall  be  the  last  of  a  collateral  branch  of  the 
Strozzi,  or  Frangepani,  or  of  any  other  Italian  house  whose 
beginning,  in  the  opinion  of  divers  heralds,  dates  from 
beyond  Numa.  Here  is  a  glorious  prerogative !  The 
swindler  may  make  his  own  coat-of-arms,  although  his 
immediate  father  walked  the  earth  without  a  shirt.      Show 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     243 

me  any  other  man  possessing  so  delicious  a  privilege.  With 
long  rolls  of  knights  and  barons,  and  earls  and  princes 
before  him,  how  the  swindler  may  play  the  epicure  with  the 
mighty  dead  !  How  loftily,  yet  how  serenely,  may  he 
contemplate  the  titled  dust  of  bygone  generations  !  Even  as 
your  dainty  snuff-taker  coquets  with  a  dozen  samples  of  the 
odoriferous  tobacco,  so  may  the  swindler,  pondering  on  a 
choice  of  father  and  mother,  taste  with  his  moral  sense  the 
various  claims  of  buried  greatness.  Now,  he  likes  this 
Prince's  mixture — and  now  this.  He  is  puzzled,  perplexed 
by  the  hundred  appeals  to  his  filial  affection.  He  is  one 
minute  determined  to  have  come  from  the  Montmorencys — 
the  next,  he  feels  a  yearning  towards  the  Talbots — and  in  a 
few  seconds,  lo  !  he  will  make  a  kindred  to  himself  from 
the  golden  line  of  D'Este.  If  the  reader  possess  imagina- 
tion— and  if  he  do  not  I  tremble  for  my  book — he  must 
sympathise  with  the  delightful  tumult  in  the  swindler's 
brain  and  breast,  or  rather  brain  alone — (for  with  your 
true  swindler  the  brain  must  have  played  the  Aaron's  rod 
with  the  heart,  swallowing  it  whole ;  a  miracle  very  often 
performed  in  the  anatomy  of  great  public  men) — he  must 
feel  more  than  commonly  interested  in  the  contest  which  is 
to  decide  the  parentage  of  our  hero.  With  this  allusion  to 
the  delicacy  of  the  juncture,  we  leave  the  swindler  at  his 
books,  merely  impressing  upon  him  the  necessity  of  choosing 
a  long  way  back — of  electing  an  ancestor  from  some  by- 
way catacomb  —  some  seldom  visited  cemetery  —  some 
"untrod  on  corner  i'  the  earth."  Nor  let  him  despair; 
there  are  at  least  a  round  thousand  or  two  of  dukes  and 
princes  sufficiently  obscure  in  their  winding-sheets,  albeit 
possibly  brave  and  blatant  enough  when  in  the  flesh,  from 
whom  the  swindler  may  scratch  out  a  great  progenitor.  All 
that  is  necessary  is  that  the  beginner  of  the  family  shall 
have  lived  in  the  dim  twilight  of  civilisation — that  he  shall 
be  so  far  away  that  all  the  Herald's  Colleges,  with  all  their 


244     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

spectacles  upon  their  collective  noses,  shall  not  be  able  to 
perceive  whether  the  disentombed  thing  be  flesh  or  phantom. 
Very  satisfactory  progenitors  have  been  found,  with  arms  to 
match,  of  thew  and  sinew  just  as  questionable.  If,  however, 
the  swindler  will  have  a  mighty  ancestor,  let  him,  I  repeat, 
go  far  enough  for  him :  when  a  man  wants  a  marquis,  or 
an  earl,  or  a  count,  for  his  great-grandfather,  he  should  not 
grudge  a  long  walk — even  though  he  walk  blindfold  and 
backwards — for  the  commodity.  So  much  for  the  ambitious 
swindler. 

The  swindler,  however,  who  trusts  to  his  unassisted  genius, 
and  disdains  the  lustre  of  any  specious  trophies  from  the 
churchyard,  may  with  a  very  laudable  pride  refuse  to  make 
to  himself  a  grandfather,  being  possibly  contented  with  the 
grandsire  selected  by  his  grandmother  for  him.  Some  men 
■ — and  let  me  do  all  homage  to  their  simplicity — turn  up 
their  noses  at  the  genealogical  tree,  even  though  its  roots 
were  struck  at  Tyburn  :  the  swindler  of  sanguine  spirit  may 
be  of  this  proud  kidney  ;  and  all  the  better  :  I  augur  more 
of  his  ultimate  triumph.  However,  though  he  shall  refuse 
a  herald-begotten  progenitor,  it  may  be  highly  necessary  for 
him  that  he  shall  choose  a  name.  His  own  may  have  become 
celebrated  for  family  achievements  wide  away  of  his  purpose  ; 
and  therefore,  whilst  with  filial  affection  he  sticks  to  his 
own  father  and  mother,  disdaining  the  blood  of  Norman, 
Guelph,  or  Ghibelline — it  may  be  imperative  upon  him  to 
assume  a  nominal  device  not  hitherto  borne  by  any  of  his 
kin.  The  swindler  wants  a  name.  Here,  then,  we  approach 
a  delicate,  yes,  a  difficult  point.  Let  me,  however,  set  out 
with  a  solemn  injunction  to  the  swindler,  that  in  the  choice 
of  a  name  "  he  throw  away  ambition."  Considerable  nicety 
is  required  in  the  selection  of  a  good  title  for  swindling  ;  a 
number  of  fine  young  fellows  having — if  I  may  lighten  the 
solemnity  of  this  essay  with  a  familiar  phrase — "let  the  cat 
out  of  the  bag  "  by  the  incautious  assumption  of  a  high- 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     245 

sounding,  flowery,  no-meaning  patronymic.  The  truth  is, 
the  detestable  rage  for  novels  has  so  familiarised  the  world 
with  a  set  of  sugar-and-water  heroes — of  exquisite  gentle- 
men, all  of  them  worthy  of  a  glass  case  lest  the  flies  should 
soil  them — that  their  very  excess  of  virtue  has  put  them  on 
the  hue  and  cry  of  suspicion.  Hence  "  De/acour,"  "  Erping- 
ham"  "  Rosenthorp"  "  Millefleur"  and  a  thousand  others 
of  the  courtly  and  sweet-smelling  class,  all  in  their  time 
excellent  names  for  swindling  (that  is,  for  swindling  in  the 
higher  sense  of  the  term,  for  in  "fine  wire  wove"  they 
swindle  still),  are  now  no  other  than  brands,  stigmata,  by 
which  the  calling  of  the  professor  is  instantly  suspected. 
Hence,  my  dear  pupil,  take  no  sweet,  pastry-cook  name  from 
a  novel ;  cull  no  flower  from  a  play-bill ;  but  look,  as  either 
a  poet  or  a  member  of  Parliament  says,  I  forget  which,  "  look 
abroad  into  universality  "  for  the  thing  desired.  As  you 
walk  the  street  cast  your  eyes  above  the  door  of  the  worthy 
shopkeeper.  A  thousand  to  one  that  in  a  day's  saunter  you 
will  possess  yourself,  and  from  such  a  source,  of  a  name  in 
every  respect  unexceptionable.  Yes,  from  the  board  of 
the  thriving,  honest,  painstaking,  till-respecting  tradesman. 
And  if  so,  how  ingenious,  how  pleasant  withal,  to  obtain 
one  of  your  best  weapons  from,  so  to  speak,  the  armoury  of 
the  enemy,  to  be  fleshed  immediately  upon  him!  It  is 
perhaps  unnecessary  to  warn  the  young  swindler  that  he 
must  not  be  too  homely  in  his  choice.  There  is  a  class  of 
names  which,  from  their  very  abundance,  makes  it  a  matter 
of  constructive  ignominy  to  swindle  under  them.  And  some 
of  these  are  Jones,  Walsh,  Welsh,  Thomson,  Johnson, 
Dobson,  White,  Brown,  Williams,  Simpson,  Smithson,  and 
that  multitudinous  monosyllable,  Smith  !  If,  in  a  moment 
of  hilarity  you  break  a  lamp,  wrench  off  a  knocker,  or  snap 
a  bell  wire,  why  any  one  of  these  names  may  be,  as  of  course 
every  gentleman  well  knows,  confidently  given  in  to  the  night 
constable  j  but  to  attempt  to  swindle  under  them  betrays  a 


246     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 


petty  larceny  spirit  in  the  professor,  from  which  my  experi- 
ence looks  for  little  present  gain  or  future  reputation.  No  ; 
the  name  of  a  swindler  should  be  like  the  wardrobe  of  the 
true  gentleman — a  thing  not  challenging  vulgar  attention  ; 
but,  if  examined,  found  to  be  of  the  very  best  material  and 
of  the  choicest  workmanship.  Hence  let  the  swindler  choose 
between  a  clinquant  (I  do  believe  this  is  almost  the  first 
bit  of  French  appearing  in  the  essay,  for  the  which  I 
confess  myself  deficient  in  the  graces  of  modern  literature1), 
between  the  clinquant  of  novel  heroes  and  the  homeliness 
of  "  base  mechanics" — let  his  name  be  a  solid,  substantial, 
downright  English  name. 

1  The  Captain  is  in  error.  Though  his  essay  is,  assuredly,  barren 
of  "  the  tongues,"  the  author  knows  more  of  bookmaking  than 
he  apparently  chooses  to  confess. — [John  Jackdaw,  Ed.] 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     247 

I  say  English,  for  I  think  we  have  had  too  long  a  peace  to 
render  the  assumption  of  a  foreign  title  and  a  foreign  accent 
worth  the  trouble,  the  incessant  watchfulness,  the  continual 
stretch  of  a  man's  intellects :  the  call  upon  his  faculties  to 
keep  up  the  character  should  be  well  rewarded,  for  the  hazard 
of  self-discovery  is  very  great.  I  know  a  remarkable  instance 
of  the  danger.  There  was  Thaddeus  Ballynamuck — he  once, 
with  merely  a  backward  touch  of  his  hand,  broke  the  jaw  of 
the  manager  of  a  minor  theatre  who  dared  to  offer  him  terms 
to  bring  him  out  as  a  Patagonian  giant — there  was  Thaddeus, 
who  had  made  a  splendid  six  weeks'  campaign  at  the  West- 
end  as  an  Italian  count ;  how  admirably  did  he  with  the 
lingua  Toscana  flavour  his  native  Connaught !  The  Duke 
of  Tuscany  was  his  dear  friend ;  and  not  without  reason  ; 
for  Thaddeus  at  a  boar  hunt  had  stood  between  the  boar 
and  the  duke,  receiving  the  tusks  of  the  beast  in  his  hunting 
jacket,  for  the  which  he  had  obtained  a  great  many  Italian 
orders,  and  on  the  strength  of  which  he  gave  a  great  many 
English  ones.  Well,  Thaddeus,  though  considered  as  true 
an  Italian  as  the  poet  Asso,1  was  one  morning  driven  to  the 
necessity  of  shaving  himself,  changing  his  southern  name, 
and  retiring  for  a  few  weeks  to  the  privacy  of  Southend. 
He  was  betrayed  into  self-discovery  by  an  excess  of  bene- 
volence— the  more  was  the  pity.  Thus  it  was.  He  always 
carried  in  his  cab  a  beautiful  dove-coloured  Italian  grey- 
hound, its  legs  not  much  thicker  than  goose  quills,  and  its 
tail  like  bent  wire — the  gift  of  the  Marchesa  di  Lungabarba. 
The  dog  had  leaped  from  the  cab  and  followed  its  master 
into  the  office  of  Finings,  the  wine  merchant.  Thaddeus 
had  before  very  considerably  patronised  Finings,  and  was 
about  to  give  him  a  splendid  order  for  some  choice  port  to 
be  shipped  to  his  friend  the  duke — and  how  the  eyes  of 
Finings  twinkled  at  the  title  of  his  highness! — when  the 
cellarman,  a  brawny,  heavy  fellow  from  Somerset,  shambled 

1  The  Captain  doubtless  means  Tasso — [John  Jackdaw,  Ed.]. 


248     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

into  the  office  and  trod,  with  all  his  fourteen  stone,  upon  the 
delicate  toes  of  Angelo  the  greyhound  :  the  dog  howled  with 
agony  piercing  enough  to  crack  the  parchment  heart  of  an 
old  maid,  when  the  Captain — he  was,  at  the  moment,  with 
the  greatest  difficulty  endeavouring  to  make  himself  under- 
stood to  the  wine  merchant — turned  round,  and,  to  the 
astonishment  of  Finings,  fulminating  a  string  of  oaths  in 
the  very  purest  Connaught,  dealt  a  blow  on  the  breast  of 
the  cellarman  that  sent  him  prostrate  on  three  dozen  of 
choice  brandy — picked  samples  for  the  dowager  Lady 
Drinkwater — to  their  utter  destruction,  and  to  the  exceed- 
ing surprise  of  the  wine  merchant,  who  had  never  in  all  his 
life  heard  an  Italian  count  vituperate  such  beautiful,  such 
unadulterate  Irish.  I  will  not  continue  the  story  :  Thaddeus 
Ballynamuck,  though  an  admirable  artist,  fell  a  victim  to 
the  exuberance  of  his  feelings ;  as  a  swindler  he  was 
professionally  killed  by  Angelo,  the  late  Marchesa  di 
Lungabarba's  greyhound. 

I  have  narrated  this  little  history  that  it  may  serve  as  an 
illustration  of  the  perils  besetting  an  honest,  simple,  guileless 
Englishman  who  might  wish  to  swindle  as  an  exotic.  There 
is,  it  must  be  allowed,  unnecessary  peril  in  the  experiment ; 
besides  I  question  if  it  be  not  unpatriotic.  Why  defraud 
our  mother  country  of  the  advantage  of  our  reputation  ? 
Why,  with  ungrateful,  with  unfilial  hand  add  a  leaf  to  the 
laurel  of  Germany — of  France — of  Italy — of  Russia  ?  No ; 
for  a  true  born  Briton  to  swindle  as  a  noble  from  the  Hartz 
mountains — as  a  count  from  Paris — a  Roman  count — or  a 
prince  from  St  Petersburg — is  poor,  shuffling,  shabby,  or, 
if  I  may  use  a  term  which  I  am  proud  to  find  of  late  very 
current  among  politicians  and  political  writers  (for  the  classes 
are  more  distinct  than  people  are  prone  to  imagine) — it  is 
Un-English. 

America,  however,  has  her  claims  upon  us.  The  swindler 
may,  and  with  profit,  prove  his  recollection  of  the  ties  that 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     249 

once  bound  Columbia  to  Britain — may  gratefully  acknow- 
ledge a  sense  of  the  relationship  between  the  mother  and  the 
daughter  country,  by  swindling  as  a  gentleman  with  enormous 
possessions  in  New  York,  or,  what  is  still  better,  in  Virginia. 
Here  the  many-sided  philosopher  cannot  fail  to  recog- 
nise a  new  advantage  in  a  community  of  language.  The 
so'i-disant  (hem!  French  again!),  the  soi-disant  American 
swindler  may  avenge  the  injuries  of  a  greyhound  on  the 
person  of  a  cellarman,  yet  run  no  risk  of  discovery.  He 
may  still  run  up  and  down  the  gamut  of  execration  and  not 
betray  himself.  Think  of  this,  youthful  swindler.  Besides, 
there  is  another  great  temptation  to  offer  this  passing  honour 
to  America.  Her  unsettled  currency  affords  the  swindler  a 
hundred  plausible  excuses  if — for  such  improprieties  do  occur 
at  the  London  Hotel,  Grillon's,  the  Clarendon,  all  the  very 
best  of  houses — if  rudely  pressed  to  show  those  credentials  of 
gentility  which  even  the  rudest  and  the  most  illiterate  never 
fail  to  acknowledge.  Thus  the  swindler  may  for  a  time 
throw  himself  upon  the  banks :  and  this  the  more  safely  if 
he  have  displayed  a  handful  of  letters  of  introduction  (a 
few  to  the  royal  household),  all  easily  manufactured,  and 
all,  for  the  time,  as  good  as  letters  of  credit.  There  is 
another  very  practicable  deceit.  He  may,  on  the  night  of  his 
arrival  in  London,  have  his  pocket  picked  of  certain  Govern- 
ment securities,  and,  having  made  the  keeper  of  the  hotel 
the  depository  of  his  secret,  straightway  advertise  the 
loss  in  all  the  papers.  This,  I  confess,  is  a  ticklish  experi- 
ment, demanding  the  finest  self-possession,  the  greatest 
delicacy  to  carry  it  into  successful  operation  ;  and  if  the 
youthful  swindler  have  any  doubts  of  himself,  I  charge  him 
by  his  hopes  of  future  profit  and  reputation  not  to  think  of 
hazarding  it.  Should  he,  however,  succeed,  and  the  land- 
lord advance  liberally,  he  may  condescend  to  express  his 
best  wishes  for  the  prosperity  of  his  host,  and  more,  may 
invite  himself  to  dine  with  him.     Great  caution,  however, 


250     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

is  to  be  used  before  there  be  any  advance  to  such  familiarity  ; 
and  yet  I  once  knew  a  gentleman  from  Natchez  who  ob- 
tained unlimited  credit  from  his  host — the  pot-house  keeper 
was  musical — by  insisting  upon  it  that  he  made  Dibdin's 
"  Lovely  Nan  "  by  the  very  force  of  expression  remarkably 
like  Rossini.  So  far,  all  was  well ;  but,  forgetful  of  what 
was  due  to  himself  as  a  swindler, — in  the  genial  atmosphere 
of  a  domestic  hearth  letting  himself  down  to  the  level  of 
his  host — the  foolish  fellow  suffered  himself  to  play  at  crib- 
bage  with  his  landlord  ;  a  man  who  had  spent  at  least  half  of 
his  long  and  useful  life,  pegging.  Game  after  game  the 
landlord's  doubts  increased  :  and  at  length  he  rose  from  the 
table  with  a  blank  in  his  face,  and  all  the  swindler's  bill  in 
his  heart.  "  I'm  done — I  know  I'm  done  !  "  cried  the  host 
with  a  groan.  "  I  must  be  done,  for  no  true  gentleman  could 
ever  beat  me  at  cribbage."  At  least  one  month's  board  and 
lodging,  besides  the  greatest  of  all  advantages,  the  first- 
rate  reference  to  shopkeepers,  did  my  friend  from  Natchez 
lose  by  his  skill  at  cribbage.  It  is  true  when  hard  pressed 
he  talked  a  great  deal  about  the  last  failure  of  the  cotton 
crop — an  excellent  theme,  by  the  way — but  in  this  case  he 
talked  to  the  winds,  or,  what  was  much  worse,  to  a  man 
obstinate  upon  his  bill.  My  friend  had  to  make  an 
ignominious  retreat,  leaving  behind  him  all  his  goods  gener- 
ously subscribed  for  him  by  the  ingenuous  West-end 
shopkeepers. 

Notwithstanding  this,  the  swindler  may  for  a  time  take 
America  for  his  country.  The  trick  is  by  no  means  over- 
done. If,  however,  the  swindler  make  the  election — if  he 
resolve  upon  becoming  a  gentleman  of  enormous  fortune 
from  the  United  States — he  had  better  choose  the  South, 
and,  above  all  things,  he  must  not  forget  the  cotton  crop. 
As  it  once  happened  at  New  Orleans,  much  execution  may, 
even  in  London,  be  done  upon  the  enemy  from  behind 
cotton   bags.      As   for   his   rank,  the   swindler  should   not 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     251 

venture  beyond  that  of  colonel — yes,  a  colonel  and  a  great 
grower  of  cotton. 

We  next  come  to  a  most  important  subject — the  dress  of 
the  swindler.  The  present  age  judges  of  the  condition  of 
men  as  we  judge  of  the  condition  of  cats — by  the  sleekness, 
the  gloss  of  their  coats.  Hence,  in  even  what  is  called  a 
respectable  walk  of  life,  with  men  of  shallow  pockets  and 
deep  principles,  it  is  of  the  first  importance  to  their  success 
that,  if  they  would  obtain  three  hundred  per  annum,  they 
must  at  least  look  as  if  they  were  in  receipt  of  seven.  Very 
many  stoical  privations  are  endured  for  this  great  purpose. 
How  many  a  fine  hungry  fellow  carries  his  dinner  upon  his 
back — his  breakfast  in  his  beaver — his  supper  in  his  boots  ! 
The  Hottentot  is  not  the  only  human  animal  that  clothes 
itself  with  the  cost  of  bowels.  The  swindler,  however,  is 
not — fate  forbid  that  it  should  be  so  ! — called  upon  to  make 
the  same  sacrifice  required  every  day  in  London  of  the  poor, 
friendless  student — of  the  miserable,  unknown  artist-— the 
juvenile  surgeon,  panting  for  a  practice — the  barrister,  without 
a  fee — the  curate,  with  lips  hungering  for  even  locusts  and 
wild  honey — the  thousands  of  God's  most  helpless  creatures, 
gentlemen,  born  with  a  silver  spoon,  but  left  by  fortune  at 
their  maturity  without  any  employment  for  knife  and  fork 
— no,  no,  it  is  the  purpose,  the  triumph  of  swindling  to  put 
its  professors  in  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  to  make  "their 
eyes  red  with  wine  and  their  teeth  white  with  milk."  They 
have  to  dress  well,  not  to  keep  up  the  barren  name  of 
gentleman,  but  to  flourish  as  swindlers.  Poor  Dactyl,  the 
poet — astonishing  truth  ! — is  too  proud  to  take  credit  for  a 
hat — too  poor  to  buy  one — and  too  high-spirited  to  nod  to 
his  old  college  friends  in  a  rusty  beaver.  Will  the  reader 
listen  to  a  fact  ?  What  does  Dactyl  ?  Why,  he  makes  a 
compromise  with  his  magnanimity  —  he  over-persuades 
himself  that  his  beaver  is  as  yet  tolerably  jetty,  since  all 
the  summer   he  has  once  a  day  sponged  it  with  a  damp 


252     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

sponge,  and  kept  religiously  upon  the  shady  side  of  the 
pavement.  I  mention  this  wretched  shift  of  a  pusillanimous 
spirit  to  show  to  the  young  swindler  what  might  be  his 
fate  if,  with  a  pertinacity  only  found  in  simpletons  of 
the  very  first  class,  he  would  resolve  to  live  the  gentleman 
upon  the  revenue  of  the  chameleon  ;  and,  with  not  a  sixpence 
in  his  pocket,  would  be  sufficiently  mad  to  rave  about 
honour  in  his  bosom.  What  is  the  reward  of  such  obstinacy 
— what  the  goal  of  men  so  honourably  idle — so  perversely 
pure  ?  What  the  end  ?  Go, — ask  it  of  the  Thames  !  Put 
the  question  to  the  Serpentine  —  the  New  River — the 
canals !  Mutter  the  query  as  you  pause  at  the  gun- 
smith's— as  you  linger  at  the  chemist's  !  Ask,  as  you  see 
whisk  by  you  the  chariot  of  the  coroner  ! 

I  had  not  touched  upon  this  mean-spirited  class  of 
bipeds — of  the  species,  many  of  whom  die  off  in  honourable 
poverty,  and  many  in  a  dishonourable  horse-pond — did  not 
swindling  save  a  third  portion  of  the  body  from  a  life  of 
starvation  and  an  end  of  vulgar  misery.  The  good, 
indulgent  parents  who,  in  submission,  as  they  conceive, 
to  the  high  civilisation  of  the  day,  will  rather  let  their 
sons  be  nothing  if  they  cannot  put  them  in  a  fair  way  to 
become  archbishops,  chancellors,  and  commanders-in-chief, 
owe  much  to  swindling,  for — urbane  goddess! — how  often 
does  she  take  the  pet  of  the  fireside — the  darling  of  the 
chimney  corner — the  pretty  prodigal,  when  plucked  of 
every  feather  by  the  jackdaws  \  of  the  town,  and  make  of 
him  again  a  bird  of  finest  plumage.  Yes,  thousands  and 
thousands  of  young  gentlemen,  shamefully  deserted  by 
their  parents  when  they  had  not  a  farthing  more  to  leave 
them,  and — -wanting  a  calling — with  nothing  to  do,  have 
been  received  with  open  arms  by  the  tenderest  of  foster- 
mothers  ;  and  not  only  once  more  set  upon  their  legs,  but, 

1  I    persuade    myself   that    Captain    Whitefeather    here    meant 
nothing  personal. — [John  Jackdaw,  Ed.] 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     253 

perhaps,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  put  into  their 
own  cabriolets !  Little  thinks  the  plodding  tradesman, 
determined  upon  making  Tom  a  gentleman,  that  his  dear 
boy  may  owe  all  the  external  appearances  of  that  character 
to  nought  but  swindling.      But  I  have  wandered. 

The  swindler  must  dress  well — very  well ;  nay,  he  must 
be  rather  over-dressed  than  under-dressed.  If  his  means  be 
scanty,  he  must  on  the  outset,  if  I  may  use  the  phrase  of  a 
celebrated  bill  discounter,  late  of  the  New  Cut — he  must 
"  spend  his  money  superficially  "  ;  that  is,  as  the  before- 
named  fiscal  authority  condescended  to  explain,  he  must 
expend  a  little  in  such  a  way  that  the  outlay  may  appear 
very  considerable.  He  must,  however,  continually  bear  this 
in  mind,  that  in  this  our  beloved  country — in  England — the 
empress  of  nations — the  queen  of  reason — the  genius  of 
toleration — and  the  benefactress  of  the  oppressed — nearly 
everything  depends  upon  a  man's  coat.  Great  and  rich 
is  he  indeed  who  can  afford  to  confront  the  midday  sun  in 
threadbare  cloth.  It  matters  not  what  may  be  your  genius 
■ — what  your  worth ;  you  must  make  the  success  of  that 
genius  apparent — you  must  publish  the  reward  of  that 
worth  ;  you  must  assure  men's  eyes  that  you  are  a  fine 
gentleman,  or  you  will,  with  all  your  glorious  aspiration,  be 
passed,  confounded  with  the  mob.  The  triumphs  of  mind 
are  to  the  trading  million  too  subtle,  too  abstract,  to 
be  easily  grasped  ;  but  the  quality  of  a  man's  coat — the 
gorgeousness  of  his  vest — the  chain  of  finest  carat — the  ring 
of  brightest  sparkle — all  of  these  are  so  many  indisputable 
evidences  of  worldly  success,  and  are,  therefore,  to  be  con- 
tinually carried  about  by  a  man  as  universal  vouchers  for 
his  character.  John  Bull  has  certainly  the  largest  eyes  of 
any  of  the  nations.  Hence,  if  it  be  imperative  upon  men 
with  even  a  known  calling  to  exhibit  an  outward  sign  of  the 
prosperity  of  that  craft,  how  much  more  is  it  incumbent  on 
Ms — the  minions  of  Mercury,  with  nothing  but  the  vivacity 


254     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

of  our  wits  M  to  feed  and  clothe  "  us — to  put  a  splendid  out- 
side upon  swindling,  and  since  the  world  ducks  to  appear- 
ance, to  assure  ourselves  of  its  very,  very  lowest  stooping  ! 
I  have  never  yet  known  an  instance  of  a  successful  swindler 
in  a  shabby  coat.  Who,  indeed,  would  trust  a  man  with  a 
hole  in  his  hat  ?  Read  the  Police  Reports — those  "  short 
and  simple  annals" — how,  nineteen  times  out  of  twenty,  do 
they  commence  ?  Why,  thus — "  Algernon  Mountedgecomb, 
a  young  man  dressed  in  the  highest  style  of  fashion,"  etc., 
etc.  Such  is  always  the  strain  ;  for  can  the  reader  point 
out  any  case  with  any  verbal  similarity  to  the  following  : — 
M  Yesterday,  John  Snooks,  a  wretchedly  attired  fellow,  was 
brought  up  charged  with  obtaining  under  false  pretences  a 
diamond  ring,  a  gold  repeater,  and  a  suit  of  pearls  from  the 

house  of ? "      Has  ever  such  a  case  been  chronicled  ? 

Certainly  not :  hence,  the  tailor  is  indispensable  to  the 
swindler,  who  is  on  no  account  to  spare  him.  The  swindler 
may,  in  the  weakness  of  his  nature,  have  some  qualms 
towards  any  one  except  a  tailor  ;  but  the  swindler  who  deals 
mercifully  with  a  tailor  had  better  seek  another  profession — 
such  chicken-heartedness  is  not  for  our  art.  The  benevol- 
ence is  so  much  goodness  lost — wasted — flung  to  the  winds  ; 
for  you  are  to  bear  with  you  this  recollection  :  it  is  an  axiom 
in  his  trade,  that  the  tailor  never  loses.  "  Them  as  does 
pay  " — such  was  the  confession  of  an  eminent  coatmaker 
after  his  second  bottle  of  Burgundy  drank  at  Button  Park, 
his  country  seat — "  them  as  does  pay,"  said  the  good  man, 
"pays  for  them  as  doesn't."  Can  there  be  a  finer  provision 
for  the  protection  of  trade,  and  the  satisfaction  of  the  non- 
paying  ?  Hence,  if  possible,  flay  your  tailor.  Should  he 
discount — for  there  are  such  philanthropists — let  him  have 
a  few  bills  by  all  means.  In  his  vast  profits  what  are  two 
or  three  thousands  more  or  less  in  a  twelvemonth's  balance  ? 
Iff  however,  he  will  not  discount  the  paper  of  your  friends 
■ — "  accommodate  "  is  a  good  word — he  cannot  refuse  your 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     255 

own  bill.  Great  is  the  satisfaction  of  a  bill !  What  serenity 
comes  upon  a  man's  soul  when  he  hath  writ  M  accepted  "  ! 
What  a  load  he  feels  lifted  from  his  lightened  heart !  How 
airily,  how  joyously  he  looks  around  him,  elevated  with  a 
sense  of  duty  done  to  his  neighbour  and  to  himself!  Sweet, 
most  sweet,  the  satisfaction  !  Such  I  am  sure  was  the  feel- 
ing of  my  late  lamented  friend,  Captain  Judas  Gammon  ; 
for  that  excellent  fellow  never  accepted  a  bill  that  he  did 
not  clasp  his  hands  and,  raising  his  eyes  with  a  devout  look 
of  thanksgiving,  exclaim,  "  There  now — thank  heaven —  ! 
that's  paid !  " 

There  is,  however,  one  objection  to  a  bill — it  puts  another 
pair  of  wings  to  the  back  of  Time.  Hence,  get  a  long 
day.  He  was  a  philosopher  and  knew  human  nature,  and 
more  than  all,  those  profound  workings  of  the  human 
heart  set  going  by  the  machinery  of  bills,  —  he  ivas  a 
sage  who,  at  the  Old  Bailey  bar, — what  men  of  wit  and 
genius  have  made  that  nook  all  classic  ground! — having 
received  sentence  of  seven  years'  retirement  from  the  bust- 
ling world,  thus,  with  smiling  face,  addressed  the  judge : — 
"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lord,  but  have  you  a  stamp  about 
you  ?  if  so,  permit  me  to  accept  a  bill  at  seven  years,  for 
then  they'll  pass  like  one." 

Next  for  equipage.  A  swindler,  like  a  physician,  can 
scarcely  hope  to  prosper  on  foot.  He  must  ride  to  fame 
and  fortune :  hence  a  cab  is  of  the  first  consequence  to 
him.  This,  however,  is  too  obvious  to  call  for  further 
disquisition.  The  effect  of  a  magnificent  cab — a  grey  blood 
— and  a  diminutive  fancy  tiger — upon  the  sensibilities  of  the 
shopkeeping  world  are  every  day  made  manifest  by  the 
Police  Reports.  Jonathan  Wild,  Richard  Turpin,  and 
other  worthies  laboured  on  horseback — civilisation  adds  to 
their  less  bloodthirsty  descendants  the  comforts  and  the 
graces  of  a  cab. 

And  now,  come  we  to  the  moral  bearing  of  the  swindler. 


256     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 


Destiny  has  marked  him  to  play  a  very  various  character. 
He  is,  I  will  not  attempt  to  disguise  it,  beset  by  difficulties. 
There  are  men,  assuredly,  born  with  a  genius  for  the  profes- 
sion ;  who,  as  it  would  seem,  instinctively  adapt  themselves 
to  all  its  peculiarities  ;  men  who  would  have  been  lost, 
sacrificed,  utterly  unknown  in  any  other  calling.  I  do 
not  address  myself  to  them — this  luminous  work  is  not 
written  for  their  instruction  ;  but  to  the  thousands  of  the 
rising  generation,  induced,  tempted,  by  the  spirit  of  the 
times — a  spirit  of  the  most  tyrannic  gentility — to  live  with- 
out means  ;  to  eat  the  fat  of  the  land  without  once  greasing 
their  delicate  fingers  in  search  of  it.  Let  these,  however, 
not  conclude  that  our  path  lies  over  flowers  :  by  no  means  ; 
there  are  very  many  rubs  to  be  endured  on  the  way — 
rubs  calling  for  at  once  the  greatest  self-possession  and  the 
most  admired  meekness.  Indeed,  I  should  not  discharge  a 
great  public  duty  did  I  not  state  it  as  my  conviction  that 
very  far   less   powers   of  mind,  and   ingenuity  of  a  much 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     257 

lower  scale,  are  found  sufficient  to  make  a  fortune  in  any 
of  the  low  mechanic  arts  of  life  than  are  required  by  even 
the  humblest  swindler.  However,  the  ardour  of  youth  is 
not  to  be  withstood ;  hence  our  best  choice  is  to  instruct 
and  fortify  it. 

And  now,  neophyte  swindler,  let  me  put  a  few  questions 
to  you.  And  ere  you  answer,  submit  to  a  most  rigorous 
self-examination — search  every  hole  and  corner  of  your 
heart ;  and  then  hold  up  your  head  and  reply  unblushingly. 

Can  you  bear  what  is  called  public  contempt  ?  Are  you 
clothed  with  a  moral  armour,  more  impenetrable  than  the 
scales  of  the  dragon — from  which  the  glances  of  reproach, 
the  scoffs,  the  sneers,  the  hard  abuse  of  vulgar  minds — the 
mere  pity  of  those  prigs  who  call  themselves  philanthropists 
— shall  fall  aside  unfelt  and  unremembered  ? 

Can  you  school  yourself  to  look  in  all  human  faces — for 
this  trial  will  come — and  find  them  blank  ? 

Have  you  sufficient  fortitude  to  witness  unrepiningly  the 
good  fortune  of  some  early  companion — a  dullard,  yet 
plodding,  and  what  the  world  calls  honest — surrounded 
with  all  the  luxuries  of  life,  the  fruits  of  lowly  huckstering, 
when,  possibly,  you  yourself  are  yearning  for  a  tester  ? 

Can  you  bear  with  the  nerves  of  a  martyr  the  visitation 
of  a  horse- whip — for  I  will  not  shirk  any  of  the  probabilities 
that  wait  upon  the  profession — or  the  vindictive  and  un- 
Christianlike  application  of  a  pointed  boot  to  the  os  sacrum  ?  1 

Can  you,  at  proper  time  and  season,  bear  your  nose  pulled  ? 

1  "It  is  very  strange,"  remarks  Captain  Whitefeather  in  one 
of  his  unpublished  essays,  "On  Personal  Satisfaction,"  "how 
very  few  men  know  what  is  due  to  themselves  and  to  the  second 
party,  in  inflicting  what  they  call  personal  chastisement.  I  have," 
continues  the  Captain,  with  that  delightful  ingenuousness  which 
made  him  the  soul  of  his  circle,  "  I  have  been  kicked,  horse- 
whipped, cudgelled,  tossed  in  a  blanket,  pumped  upon  and  flung 
into  a  horse-pond,  yet  I  never,  but  in  one  instance,  met  with  a 
man  who  thrashed  me  Hie  a  gentleman." — [John  Jackdaw,  Ed.] 


258     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

I  am  aware  that  this  is  perhaps  the  most  difficult,  the  most 
trying  ordeal  for  the  weakness  of  human  nature  to  with- 
stand ;  and  therefore,  I  repeat  the  question — Can  you  bear 
your  nose  pulled? 

Can  you,  with  no  qualms  at  your  throat,  behold  in  rags 
or  in  a  gaol  the  simple  gull  who  has  trusted  you,  or  who- — 
more  exquisitely  simple  still — has  become  your  surety  ? 

Can  you,  when  old  age  approaches,  and  your  place  in  the 
world  is  filled  up  by  more  active,  more  youthful  professors — 
can  you,  with  your  hand  upon  your  heart,  retire  like  a 
philosopher  to  a  corner,  and  with  not  an  eye  to  look  com- 
fort to  you,  not  a  lip  to  breathe  hope  to  you,  not  a  hand  to 
grasp  your  hand — can  you  breathe  your  last  breath  with  the 
conviction  that  you  have  done  no  injury  to  the  dead,  will 
leave  no  wounds  in  the  living — and  that  having  passed  a 
life  in  heroic  defiance  of  human  prejudices,  you  meet 
death  with  the  magnanimous  indifference  of  a  roasted 
Indian  ? 

Consider,  my  dear  pupil,  whether  you  are  so  happily 
organised  that  you  can  support  these  trials — too  often 
attendant  on  our  chivalrous  profession — and  answer. 

The  pupil  laughs  at  the  impossibility  of  such  evils,  and, 
chuckling  at  the  fun,  says — I  can. 

And  Swindling  takes  him  to  her  arms  and  makes  him  all 
her  own ! 

CHAPTER  V 

A  Brief  Summary  of  the  Advantages  of  Swindling 

I  have,  I  hope,  made  it  sufficiently  plain  to  the  plainest 
understanding  that  the  faculty,  the  desire  to  swindle,  is  born 
with  us,  and  that  it  is  entirely  owing  to  the  force  of  circum- 
stance whether  we  swindle  or  not ;  and  that,  however  nice,  and 
moral,  and  exemplary,  we  may  be  in  our  individual  capacity, 
swindle  we  must  and  do,  when  we  congregate  together,  even 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     259 

with  what  are  termed  and  considered  the  very  best  intentions. 
This  being  granted,  let  every  man  with  all  possible  speed 
enroll  himself  as  one  of  a  body  corporate.  He  may  be  a 
most  rigid  member  of  a  Temperance  Society,  considering 
the  parish  pump  the  only  source  of  all  human  enjoyment ; 
and  yet,  as  one  of  a  body,  he  may  drive  a  very  pretty  trade 
in  opium.  He  may,  to  his  great  self-exaltation,  hold  a  plate 
in  aid  of  the  funds  for  the  dissemination  of  the  true  faith  ; 
and  yet  the  diamond  on  his  finger  may  have  been  purchased 
with  an  odd  balance  of  the  profits  which,  as  one  of  a  com- 
pany, he  receives  from  a  Hindoo  idol.  What  the  superficial 
world  denominates  and  brands  as  swindling  in  the  individual 
it  applauds  as  spirited  speculation,  wisdom,  foresight,  a 
fine  knowledge  of  business  in  a  number.  Hence,  if  a  man 
would  swindle  safely,  steadily,  and  above  all,  respectably, 
let  him  become  one  of  a  public  company,  and  his  dearest 
wish  is  straight  fulfilled.  What  a  profound  liar  he  may  be 
on  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  yet  what  an  oracle  of  truth 
at  his  own  fireside !  How  he  is  permitted  to  rob  his 
neighbour  by  means  of  false  intelligence,  and  what  a  roar- 
ing he  is  justified  in  setting  up  should  some  famishing, 
unprincipled  scoundrel  lessen  by  one  the  numerous  tenants 
of  the  good  man's  hen-roost!  Reader,  if  you  are  not 
already  enrolled,  become  one  of  a  body.  Though  you  may 
be  only  able  to  edge  yourself  into  a  vestry,  it  shall  be  some- 
thing. And  what  a  relief  it  is  for  the  individual  man,  com- 
pelled to  walk  half  his  time  through  the  world  in  tight  moral 
lacing,  to  be  allowed  to  sit  at  his  ease  at  the  Board  !  If 
morality  sigh  for  leisure,  where  can  it  be  enjoyed  if  not  in 
a  company  !  Once  in  a  company,  how  many  Catos  become 
Antonys ! 

To  the  rising  generation  the  advantages  of  swindling  are 
incalculable.  The  term  swindling  is,  at  present,  an  ugly  one  ; 
but  with  the  advancement  of  the  world  it  will  be  considered  as 
another  and  a  better  system  of  ethics.     To  obtain  all  things 


26o     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

needful  for  the  refined  man,  by  the  exercise  of  the  moral 
faculties,  is,  doubtless,  the  greatest  triumph  of  human 
intellect,  and  this  is  inevitably  achieved  by  the  successful 
practice  of  swindling. 

There  is  another  advantage — another  consolation — that 
I  have  purposely  left  for  consideration  in  this  place. 

When  the  plodding,  sober,  thrifty  man  quits  this  noisy 
world — made  noisy  by  the  incessant  rattling  of  pounds, 
shillings,  and  pence — it  is  ten  to  one  that  he  makes  what  is 
generally  called  an  irreparable  gap  in  a  large  circle  of  the 
most  affectionate  of  friends.  He  leaves  a  widow  broken- 
hearted—  daughters  inconsolable  —  sons  in  the  deepest 
affliction — nieces  and  nephews  very  much  concerned  — 
and  innumerable  acquaintances  all  ready,  with  very  little 
further  excitement,  to  burst  into  tears.  Now  here  is  a 
woe  inflicted  upon  fifty  people  by  the  decease  of  one  man 
— yes,  here  are  fifty  people  made  more  or  less  miserable  by 
a  very  natural  event,  the  decease  of  a  worthy  soul,  who 
would  not  willingly  inflict  a  moment's  pain  upon  any 
living  thing. 

How  different  the  death  of  the  swindler  !  He  makes  no 
irreparable  gap  in  society — not  he  !  he  agonises  neither 
man,  nor  woman,  nor  child ;  not  a  tear  is  dropped  at  his 
grave — not  a  sigh  rises  at  the  earth  rattling  on  his  coffin ! 
Must  not  the  conviction  of  this  be  the  sweetest  consolation 
to  the  dying  swindler  ?     Think  of  his  end,  and 

[It  may  be  thought  that  the  work  ends  abruptly.  It  does 
so :  the  author  had  not  leisure  to  finish  it.  The  following 
letter  will,  perhaps,  throw  some  light  upon  the  matter.  It 
was  addressed  by  the  Captain  to  an  intimate  friend : — 

"  H.M.  Transport,  Barrington. 

"Dear  Tom, — We  are  off  for  blue  water.  Some  papers  of  mine 
are  in  a  deal  box  in  the  two-pair  back  of  the  Bag-o-Nails.     If  you 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     261 

love  me,  see  I'm  in  print.  I  learn  from  a  fellow-shipmate — whose 
only  misfortune  is  that  his  handwriting  was  very  similar  to  another 
gentleman's — that  the  papers  will  make  a  very  pretty  book,  there 
being  a  great  call  nowadays  for  the  greatest  information  in  the 
smallest  compass.  You  can  pay  in  for  me  what  you  get  through 
the  Home  Office.  Be  wide  awake,  and  believe  me,  under  all 
convictions, 

"  Yours  truly, 

"  Barabbas  Whitefeather. 
"P.S. — You   know   I    never    liked    shaving;   the     chin's    bad 
enough — but  when  it  comes  to  the  head,  it's  «  regular  cruelty  to 
animals.' " 

The  above  is  ("errors  excepted")  a  true  copy  of  the 
Captain's  letter.  He  died  in — I  regret  to  say  I  cannot 
give  the  exact  latitude  :  suffice  it  to  say  he  died  ;  but  left 
behind  him  what,  I  trust,  will  prove  an  imperishable 
monument  of  his  social  worth  and  his  exalted  genius. — 
John  Jackdaw,  Ed.] 


THE  EDITOR'S  CHAPTER  TO  THE 
READER 

The  reader  has,  probably,  marked  a  variety  of  style  in  the 
foregoing  pages.  The  Editor  feels  it  to  be  due  as  much  to 
the  lamented  Captain  Whitefeather  as  to  himself  to  state 
that  he,  John  Jackdaw,  is  solely  responsible  for  the  manner 
in  which  this  work  is  presented  to  all  the  eyes  of  the 
British  public. 

Nature  had  been  very  prodigal  to  the  Captain  ;  but 
whether  from  the  extreme  vivacity  of  his  genius,  or  whether 
from  a  more  hidden  cause,  it  is  vain  to  search,  the  Captain, 
with  all  his  debts,  owed  nothing  to  art.  Even  his  ortho- 
graphy was  of  the  happiest  originality. 

The  Editor,  therefore,  felt  the  peculiar  delicacy  of  his 
task.  Had  he  printed  the  MS.  as  it  came,  with  the  bloom 
upon  it,  from  the  Captain's  hand,  it  was  to  be  feared  that  in 


262     HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING 

this  age  of  light  reading — which  reading,  like  pills,  is  made 
to  be  bolted,  not,  like  bread,  to  be  carefully  chewed — not 
one  out  of  a  hundred  would  have  had  the  necessary  patience 
to  go  through  with  it.  To  suppress  the  work  for  any  defect 
of  style  would  have  been  to  sacrifice,  as  the  Editor  con- 
sidered, a  great  national  good.  After  much  deliberation 
there  appeared  to  him  a  golden  mean.  It  struck  the  Editor 
that  he  might,  in  very  many  instances,  give  the  style  of 
Whitefeather,  whilst  in  very  many  more  he  might  heighten, 
and  adorn,  and  vary  it  from  his  own  poor  resources.  Still, 
be  it  understood,  all  the  facts  are  Whitefeather's ;  the 
Editor  only  lays  claim  to  certain  tropes,  and  metaphors, 
and  inimitable  felicities  of  expression,  to  which,  probably, 
it  might  be  considered  indelicate  were  he  more  emphatically 
to  allude.  Indeed,  he  has  only  touched  upon  the  theme 
in  the  way  of  business  ;  as  there  may  be,  even  at  this 
moment,  many  noble  and  distinguished  authors  who,  "  want- 
ing the  accomplishment  "  of  grammar,  are  yet  desirous  of 
appearing  in  print.  (To  these,  in  parenthesis,  the  author 
addresses  himself;  assuring  the  tadpole  literati  that  he 
finishes  tales,  histories,  biographies,  poems,  etc.,  with  all 
despatch,  and  with  the  most  inviolable  secrecy.  His 
address  is  in  a  former  page,  and  Breakneck  Steps  is  too 
well  known  to  all  who  would  mount  Parnassus.) 

To  the  publishers  of  the  remains  of  Captain  Whitefeather 
the  Editor  has  to  express  his  warmest  gratitude.  The 
Editor  blushes  for  the  intelligence  of  the  trade,  when  he 
states  that  this  national  work,  like  the  hitherto  inimitable 
Robinson  Crusoe,  was  offered  in  the  humblest  manner  to 
twenty  houses,  and,  sometimes  coldly,  sometimes  sulkily, 
sometimes  indignantly  refused. 

One  was  tickled  by  the  title,  but  looked  blank  when  he 
understood  that  there  was  no  murderer — no  highwayman  in 
it.  He  declared  that  the  only  way  to  keep  a  reader  awake 
was  to  commit  at  least  one  murder  in  every  page  ;  that  the 


HANDBOOK    OF    SWINDLING     263 

gallows  was  now  the  only  bay  tree,  and  that  even  the  youth- 
ful generation  sucked  intelligence  and  morals  from  tales  of 
the  gibbet,  with  the  same  eagerness  and  the  same  advantage 
that  they  sucked  liquorice  root !  "  Season  it,  sir — season 
it,"  said  one  bland  gentleman,  u  with  a  handful  of  murders 
— a  terrific  storm  on  the  New  River — and  a  miraculous 
escape  from  Marylebone  watchhouse,  and  there  may  be 
some  hopes  of  it."  A  second  asked  me  to  change  the 
title  into  "  The  Handbook  of  the  Money  Markets,"  adding, 
to  my  astonishment,  that  he  had  no  doubt  the  staple  of  the 
matter  would  serve  equally  well.  A  third — but  why 
should  I  enumerate  the  rebuffs  endured  ?  No ;  let  me 
rather,  in  the  name  of  an  obliged  generation,  register  a 
gratitude  to  the  enlightened  spirit  under  whose  auspices  the 
book  appears — a  work  destined,  as  the  Editor  with  all 
diffidence  declares,  to  work  a  good  as  incalculable  as, 
perhaps,  unknown ! 


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